On Barakah the song fell like a voice from heaven. She beheld great light. Her grief, her terrors, became natural shadows. There was one God for Christian and for Muslim. Beyond the striving and the hatred waited peace and love.
The professional muezzin on the ground behind her was rocking with enjoyment, gasping, sobbing: “Enough, O Tâhir! Of thy kindness, stop! Wouldst kill me quite? I faint, expire! It is too much of rapture! See me die! Praise be to Allah for the faith of El Islâm. Praise to the benign Creator who has vouchsafed a voice to creatures for His glory!”
Another whispered: “That is no man’s song, but the song of Israfîl. Surely the last day is dawning. Praise to Allah!” And yet another murmured: “Praise to Him who sleepeth not nor dieth, the Merciful, the Compassionate, the Light of Lights, the Living King!”
Selîm the donkey-boy had come up with Ghandûr. They spoke no word to Barakah until the last note died. By then the pallor of the dawn shone on them faintly, showing the look of sadness which succeeds enchantment. Ghandûr then came and kissed the hand of Barakah, begging her of her kindness to return with him.
He and Selîm together lifted her on to the donkey.
As they left the square the English bugles sounded on the height above.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Quickly the daylight spread and filled the streets; while overhead successive darts of light pierced the incumbent darkness and dispelled it, till the sun’s first ray reddened the minarets and plunged the streets in azure shade. Men came out from their doorways as from tombs, and went about their business listlessly. Among the lower classes it was quite expected that the English would take vengeance on the town that day. The people did not care; they were in Allah’s hands, and gave Him thanks because the war was ended.