The wild mystery of that outer night, excluded by the
close-drawn curtains, contrasted strongly with the light and the warm
comfort of the cabin with its snug berth, its aluminum furniture, its
shining walls where were affixed charts and maps, rules, photographs.
Under the clear, white light, Rrisa anxiously studied his master's
face. Great anxiety had begun to make itself manifest in the Arab's
voice and in his eyes. Another troubled look came, too, as he glanced
at the chronometer.
It struck, sharply. The Arab, contrary to all his habits and training,
spoke first, without being spoken to.
"Master," said he, timorously, "excuse the speech I offer without
waiting. But I must ask. This is my hour of night prayer, and I must
bow to Mecca. Whither, from here, lieth The City?"
The Master raised a hand, glanced at a compass set like a wrist-watch,
peered a moment at one of the charts, and then nodded toward the door
that led into the pilot-house.
Without delay, Rrisa faced that door and prostrated himself. The
ancient cry: "_La Illaha illa Allah! M'hamed rasul Allah!_" was
raised there in the cabin of the rushing Eagle of the Sky--surely the
strangest place where Moslem prayer was ever offered since first the
Prophet's green banner unfurled itself upon the desert air of Araby.
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