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Updated: May 14, 2025
"That is the last matter to be thought on," said Hartley, and instantly repaired in his palanquin to the place pointed out to him. The tomb of the Owliah, or Mahomedan Saint, Cara Razi, was a place held in much reverence by every good Mussulman. It was situated in the centre of a grove of mangos and tamarind-trees, and was built of red stone, having three domes, and minarets at every corner.
"Yet he is, after all, only a Fakir," said the message. "You will find him at the tomb of Cara Razi, the Mahomedan saint and doctor, about one coss from the fort. Enquire for him by the name of Barak el Hadgi. Such a patient promises no fees; but we know how little you care about the pagodas; and, besides, the Government is your paymaster on this occasion."
For a moment the Master stood there with blank eyes, peering out over the burning, tawny desolation of the great sand-barrens that stretched away, away, to boundless immensity. "Yes, he is surely gone," he whispered. "Shal'lah! Razi Allahu anhu!" The trilling of his cabin phone startled him to attention.
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