trating and compelling, urgent in its
persistence, powerful in its deep and sultry concentration, yet almost
oppressive, almost terrible in its monotony.

"Allah-Akbar! Allah-Akbar!" It was the murmur of the desert and the
murmur of the sun. It was the whisper of the mirage, and of the airs
that stole among the palm leaves. It was the perpetual heart-beat of
this world that was engulfing her, taking her to its warm and glowing
bosom with soft and tyrannical intention.

"Allah! Allah! Allah!" Surely God must be very near, bending to such an
everlasting cry. Never before, not even when the bell sounded and the
Host was raised, had Domini felt the nearness of God to His world, the
absolute certainty of a Creator listening to His creatures, watching
them, wanting them, meaning them some day to be one with Him, as she
felt it now while she threaded the dingy alleys towards these countless
men who prayed.

Androvsky was walking slowly as if in pain.

"Your shoulder isn't hurting you?" she whispered.

This long sound of prayer moved her to the soul, made her feel very full
of compassion for everybody and everything, and as if prayer were a cord
binding the world together. He shook his head silently. She looked at
him, and felt that he was moved also, but whether as she was she could
not tell. His face was like that of a man stricken with awe. Mustapha
turned round to them. The everlasting murmur was now so near that
it seemed to be within them, as if they, too, prayed at the tomb of
Zerzour.

"Follow me into the court, Madame," Mustapha said, "and remain at the
door while I fetch the slippers."

They turned a corner, and came to an open space before an archway,
which led into the first of the courts surrounding the mosque. Under
the archway Arabs were sitting silently, as if immersed in profound
reveries. They did not move, but stared upon the strangers, and Domini
fancied that there was enmity in their eyes. Beyond them, upon an
uneven pavement surrounded with lofty walls, more Arabs were gathered,
kneeling, bowing their heads to the ground, and muttering ceaseless
words in deep, almost growling, voices. Their fingers slipped over the
beads of the chaplets they wore round their necks, and Domini thought
of her rosary. Some prayed alone, removed in shady corners, with faces
turned to the wall. Others were gathered into knots. But each one
pursued his own devotions, immersed in a strange, interior solitude to
which sur