“Allah-Akbar! Allah-Akbar!”
She was above the eternal cry now. She had mounted like a prayer towards the sun, like a living, pulsing prayer, like the soul of prayer. She gazed at the far-off desert and saw prayer travelling, the soul of prayer travelling—whither? Where was the end? Where was the halting-place, with at last the pitched tent, the camp fires, and the long, the long repose?
When she came down and reached the court she found the old man still striking at the mosque and shrieking out his trembling imprecation. And she found Androvsky still standing by him with fascinated eyes.
She had mounted with the voice of prayer into the sunshine, surely a little way towards God.
Androvsky had remained in the dark shadow with a curse.
It was foolish, perhaps—a woman’s vagrant fancy—but she wished he had mounted with her.
BOOK III. THE GARDEN
CHAPTER X
It was noon in the desert.