Part 19 (1/2)

And doubtless Babar heard the oft told tale of the Muazzim of Kar, and of the minaret of the mosque which the sand can never hide for long; which even in these later days the dry biting winds of the desert lay bare, ever and anon, until the golden final of its blue dome s.h.i.+nes bright as ever over the wide plain.

Perhaps,--being a poet born--he may have tried to put the legend into verse with better success than the following:

The Preacher preached; his words were austere So was his Life. ”Oh! sinners, hear!

I oft have warned you--oft and amain, Gentle and stern; yet all in vain.

From off my feet by order of G.o.d Shake I the dust in which I've trod.

I rend my garments, go on my way.

Not for my soul His Judgment Day.

No more I preach, no more will I warn; Wait till the resurrection morn!”

He left the pulpit; garments he rent; Forth from the Lord's own House he went.

”Thou com'st with me,” he said as he strode Past the Muazzim. ”Thine the road Of Mercy too.” The singer bowed, Bit at his lips, then said aloud: ”The Grace of G.o.d I cannot gainsay, Fain would I go, fain would I stay, Once more I'd waken sinners to prayer.”

Frowning the Priest said ”Fool! beware Our G.o.d is Fire! He burns and He rends, Message of Peace, once only sends.”

The singer s.h.i.+vered. ”So be it, yet Prayers must be called from the minaret.

Yet once again singing must rise Out of the night to dawning skies.”

The Preacher spat. ”It lies on thy head.”

Gripped at his purse; smiled as he fled.

The minaret was slender and high, Blue was its dome; blue like the sky, Its gilded finial shone like a star Over the sinful town of Kar.

The singer climbed its narrowing stair, Stood in his place, then breathed a prayer: ”O G.o.d, most great, no atom of sand Slips through Thy Fingers' grip; Thy Hand Heeds not man's worth. Thou fillest his need.

Wake those who sleep, Dear G.o.d I plead!”

No star, no moon, the gloom of the night Making the snow peaks rim with light The purpling sky, the darkening world.

Was it a sand grain sharp that whirled To touch the watcher keen on his cheek?

Waiting so patient until a streak Of cold grey dawn should come to the sky Bringing the time for clamant cry ”_Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!_ _Sleepers! awake! Prayer time has come to you!_ _Awake! Far better Prayer than Sleep to you!_ _Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!_”

The night was silent: that was a gust Wind hot as fire, laden with dust.

The singer wiped salt tears from his eyes-- G.o.d! if the sand-storm should arise, The storm of sand that comes like a pall Gliding soft as snow flakes to fall On good, on bad. ”Oh! sleepers awake!

Waken and fly!” His voice could make Small sound against the sound of the storm Whistling the sand grains, ”Rise and form In serried order! carry the town!

Bury each fool, knave, sinner, clown, Who sleeps unheeding G.o.d's gracious grace, Mercy is tired. Go! leave no trace Of saint or sinner within this place.”

The singer fought for breath as he prayed.

”Lord! give me one more chance,” he said.

And lo! the sand-storm faltered away; Still as the grave the city lay.

The singer he sang as never before, Piercing through gateway, wall and door The clamant cry. ”Oh! sleepers rise!