Barakah had not made many steps outside the house before she was completely lost. Although for sixteen years her home had been in Cairo, she had never walked in the streets before. Which was the way? She could not tell, but went on bravely, hoping for some guide. At last she met a donkey-driver with a pleasant face. In answer to her timid hail, he smiled delighted and praised his Maker for the honour of her patronage. “To the railway station,” she enjoined at mounting, and he answered “Ready!”

Away they went, arousing echoes in the stony alleys, the driver shouting as he ran beside the ambling beast. Barakah felt exhilarated by the change of motion, the little spice of danger when they dashed round corners, or charged some group of wayfarers with warning cries. The first stage of her flight would soon be over; and once on board the train, she thought, escape was sure.

The streets were empty even for that hour. Scavenger dogs slept undisturbed in every spot of shade. The persons they encountered seemed to have no business, but stood about in groups conversing glumly. On the wide, dusty square before the railway station groups were many. A little crowd beset the station doors. These were all closed, to Barakah’s amazement. The building looked deserted.

“Ask when the next train starts for the sea-coast,” she ordered her attendant, who addressed a shout to persons standing near.

“The sea-coast? Allah knows! It may be never!” The reply was shrugged. “A great fight has taken place. The end has come. The English fell upon the camp at daybreak—yesterday or this morning, Allah knows! The rebel army was dispersed like chaff. The leader—the arch-traitor—escaped hither on an engine, and is in the town now somewhere, herding with his kind. It is clearly seen how foully he deceived us, seducing us from our allegiance with the promise of success.”

“Praise be to Allah that his reign is ended,” said another. “If the English were but true believers, one would bless them.”

“Nay, the tidings are not certain,” cried a third with anguish.

“As certain as the sun is hot upon my reins this minute. I have it from a man who saw ArÂbi. The rascal’s face was yellow as a corpse.”

Barakah’s mind received no more than the initial statement. The way that she had meant to take was closed against her.

“Whither, my lady?” asked the donkey-boy, with willing smile.

“Far, far away—towards the sea-coast. Anywhere!”

“Ready!” he laughed. “It is for thee to order. By Allah, we will go to Gebel CÂf if thou desire it.”

He smote his donkey, and they jogged along once more, out through new suburbs to the open fields. The sun was an armed foe, the dust a persecutor; her habbarah and face-veil made a sheath of fire. The donkey-boy kept looking at her with compassion, smiling encouragement whenever he could meet her gaze. He thought her mad, and so indulged her fancy, assuring her that it would not take long to reach the sea. But when she murmured of the heat and wished to rest, he showed immense relief.

“That is the best,” he cried. “Wait till I find some pleasant shade for thee. See, yonder is a tree. There thou shalt rest till the great heat is past, and then, at thy command, we can resume the journey.”

Dismounting under leaves, she sank upon the ground and wept despairingly. The tears, which bitter grief had failed to wring from her, flowed freely for her impotence. Escape was hopeless. Her project now appeared the last absurdity. The change of clothes, the change of manners, now presented difficulties which she felt that she would never have the strength to overcome. The donkey-boy’s consoling words, his friendly grin, were teasing. She sent him to fetch water from a village near at hand. He came back with a pitcher and two slabs of bread; which so revived her spirit that she once more saw beyond the moment and conceived a plan.

She would wait till nightfall and then seek the city of the dead, to die on her son’s grave, if Allah willed it. At least she would spend all the night in prayer imploring Allah’s mercy for him in the name of Christ.

She had sat a long while, cross-legged, gazing straight before her, her hands locked in her lap, when a soft voice disturbed her. The donkey-boy was plucking at her sleeve.

“The heat is spent,” he told her. “Best be moving! It is back into the city,—not so?—thy command? Much better than to journey to the sea, like this, without provision. Say, which way?”

Barakah pointed a direction listlessly. She had no wish to enter Cairo before dark, so chose a long way round, among the fields.

Soon the sunset reddened all the plain, stretching their shadows far before them on the dyke. The citadel upon its height was hotly flushed one minute, the next ash-grey and lifeless like a skull. It lived in her imagination as a monstrous spider which held her with its web and drew her in.

The donkey-boy beside her prattled ceaselessly.

“O lady, I will not forsake thee—no, by the Prophet, never, till thy mind is healed. Do I know the cemetery El AfÎfi? Wallahi! I can guide thee thither. Not a bad idea; for Allah comforts those who visit the deceased. By the Sayyid Ahmad, thou art as my mother. May God cut short my life if I desert thee in thy present state.”

The lad’s support was of some comfort to her.

In the first blue of night, when daylight lingers in the memory, they were following a sandy road towards the city, when a noise as of the sea arose behind them. The donkey-boy was first to hear it. He stood still and listened, holding up his hand. It seemed approaching on the road behind them. He looked puzzled; then suddenly let fall his hands, and made a bound.

“It is the army! Come, O my lady! We must hide ourselves. Hold fast!” He made the donkey gallop for a hundred yards, then led it down into a patch of cane. Peeping out between the stems they saw vague forms in clouds of dust approaching on the dyke above. The roar became the jangle of accoutrements, the roll of heavy carriages upon the road and murmuring voices.

Innumerable ranks of horsemen passed, dust-stained and weary, with faces resolutely strained towards Cairo. Barakah saw them as the figures of a dream. Their silhouette against the sky appeared familiar. The words with which they cheered their tired horses rang on memory.

“It is the English,” whispered her companion hoarsely.

“The English! Allah, help me!” murmured Barakah. Until that moment she had lost remembrance of the war.