She moved against the stream of country people returning homeward from their business in the city. They stared at her in passing, and occasionally made remarks which sounded friendly. The dust raised by the trail of robes, and by the donkeys’ hoofs, was some annoyance; but the dust itself became a splendour where the sunset caught it; the shadows were deep blue, enhancing colours of the crowd; and the balm of evening was in every breath she drew. To Barakah, who had not walked for months, the very motion was a comfort. She stepped forward briskly, musing on the scene she had just quitted.
What were those women saying of her now? Mrs. Cameron was no doubt declaiming, and they all agreed with her. Every word that she had said was turned against her. On that perception she was filled with shame. The unkindness, the indecency of holding up her husband’s people to provide amusement for a hostile race appeared unthinkable, the basest treachery. A wave of tenderness for Yûsuf, for Ghandûr, the slave-girls, even the old woman,—all the home surroundings,—overcame her; while her mind abhorred the frigid, callous English, who had lured her on to make a mock of her. Why should she ever see them more? She hated them. Phrases which had passed her lips ten minutes since were now abominable—a source of shame that could not cease, it seemed, but must flow on for ever till the end of time. How had she uttered them? It was their fault for scorning her, for placing her on an unnatural footing, making speech a pitfall. The harîm was her natural refuge, her true home. She never wished to quit its shade again.
Thus fiercely musing, she pursued the sandy lane until she reached a point where a road branched off from it at right angles.
Upon the corner stood a whitewashed shrine, pink in the glow of sunset, the crescent flashing on its egg-like dome; beside it a great tree under whose foliage a crowd of men were sitting out on stools, smoking and drinking coffee in the shade. Some of these took notice of her, pointing rudely, attracting the attention of the others and the passers-by. Supposing something wrong with her attire, she quickened step. Her road ran through a village. She heard shouts and laughter. A well-dressed man strode past her from behind, and turning searched her eyes. Spurred now by fear, she tried to hurry on; but found herself the centre of a crowd, whose members, moving with her, jabbered, pointed, jeered. One tweaked her habbarah; another seized her arm as if to feel the muscle. Her heart beat loud, her throat was choked with sobs repressed by terror.
The mob grew every moment bolder in its menace. A stalwart peasant-woman barred the way before her, grinning—prepared, it seemed, to pluck away her mouth-veil.
Barakah had paused, cowering, not knowing where to turn for succour, when the shout of a familiar voice relieved the strain and let her tears have vent. Ghandûr came on the scene, leading a saddled ass. His explanations soon dispersed the mob. He lifted her upon the donkey; and in a moment, as things happen in a dream, she was at home again, confronting Yûsuf, who approached the gate as they arrived.
He seemed thunderstruck at her appearance. Hearing Ghandûr’s story, he asked God for help, and raised his arm to strike her. She fell fainting at his feet.