12. A Young Lion of Dedan

Looking from the minaret the Two could see, far off, the Pyramids of
Ghizeh and Sakkara, the wells of Helouan, the Mokattam Hills, the tombs
of the Caliphs, the Khedive's palace at distant Abbasiyeh. Nearer by, the
life of the city was spread out. Little green oases of palms emerged from
the noisy desert of white stone and plaster. The roofs of the houses,
turned into gardens and promenades, made of the huge superficial city one
broken irregular pavement. Minarets of mosques stood up like giant
lamp-posts along these vast, meandering streets. Shiftless housewives
lolled with unkempt hair on the housetops; women of the harem looked out
of the little mushrabieh panels in the clattering, narrow bazaars.

Just at their feet was a mosque--one of the thousand nameless mosques of
Cairo. It was the season of Ramadan, and a Friday, the Sunday of the
Mahommedan--the Ghimah.

The "Two" were Donovan Pasha, then English Secretary to the Khedive,
generally known as "Little Dicky Donovan," and Captain Renshaw, of the
American Consulate. There was no man in Egypt of so much importance as
Donovan Pasha. It was an importance which could neither be bought nor
sold.

Presently Dicky touched the arm of his companion. "There it comes!" he
said.

His friend followed the nod of Dicky's head, and saw, passing slowly
through a street below, a funeral procession. Near a hundred blind men
preceded the bier, chanting the death-phrases. The bier was covered by a
faded Persian shawl, and it was carried by the poorest of the fellaheen,
though in the crowd following were many richly attired merchants of the
bazaars. On a cart laden with bread and rice two fellaheen stood and
handed, or tossed out, food to the crowd--token of a death in high
places. Vast numbers of people rambled behind chanting, and a few women,
near the bier, tore their garments, put dust on their heads, and kept
crying: "Salem ala ahali!--Remember us to our friends!"

Walking immediately behind the bier was one conspicuous figure, and there
was a space around him which none invaded. He was dressed in white, like
an Arabian Mahommedan, and he wore the green turban of one who has been
the pilgrimage to Mecca.

At sight of him Dicky straightened himself with a little jerk, and his
tongue clicked with satisfaction. "Isn't he, though--isn't he?" he said,
after a moment. His lips, pressed together, curled in with a trick they
had when he was thinking hard, planning things.

The other forbore to question. The notable figure had instantly arrested
his attention, and held it until it passed from view.

"Isn't he, though, Yankee?" Dicky repeated, and pressed a knuckle into
the other's waistcoat.

"Isn't he what?"

"Isn't he bully--in your own language?"

"In figure; but I couldn't see his face distinctly."

"You'll see that presently. You could cut a whole Egyptian Ministry out
of that face, and have enough left for an American president or the head
of the Salvation Army. In all the years I've spent here I've never seen
one that could compare with him in nature, character, and force. A few
like him in Egypt, and there'd be no need for the money-barbers of
Europe."

"He seems an ooster here--you know him?"

"Do I!" Dicky paused and squinted up at the tall Southerner. "What do you
suppose I brought you out from your Consulate for to see--the view from
Ebn Mahmoud? And you call yourself a cute Yankee?"

"I'm no more a Yankee than you are, as I've told you before," answered
the American with a touch of impatience, yet smilingly. "I'm from South
Carolina, the first State that seceded."

"Anyhow, I'm going to call you Yankee, to keep you nicely disguised. This
is the land of disguises."

"Then we did not come out to see the view?" the other drawled. There was
a quickening of the eye, a drooping of the lid, which betrayed a sudden
interest, a sense of adventure.

Dicky laid his head back and laughed noiselessly. "My dear Renshaw, with
all Europe worrying Ismail, with France in the butler's pantry and
England at the front door, do the bowab and the sarraf go out to take air
on the housetops, and watch the sun set on the Pyramids and make a
rainbow of the desert? I am the bowab and the sarraf, the
man-of-all-work, the Jack-of-all-trades, the 'confidential' to the
Oriental spendthrift. Am I a dog to bay the moon--have I the soul of a
tourist from Liverpool or Poughkeepsie?"

The lanky Southerner gripped his arm. "There's a hunting song of the
South," he said, "and the last line is, 'The hound that never tires.' You
are that, Donovan Pasha--"

"I am 'little Dicky Donovan,' so they say," interrupted the other.

"You are the weight that steadies things in this shaky Egypt. You are
you, and you've brought me out here because there's work of some kind to
do, and because--"

"And because you're an American, and we speak the same language."

"And our Consulate is all right, if needed, whatever it is. You've played
a square game in Egypt. You're the only man in office who hasn't got rich
out of her, and--"

"I'm not in office."

"You're the power behind the throne, you're--"

"I'm helpless--worse than helpless, Yankee. I've spent years of my life
here. I've tried to be of some use, and play a good game for England; and
keep a conscience too, but it's been no real good. I've only staved off
the crash. I'm helpless, now. That's why I'm here."

He leaned forward, and looked out of the minaret and down towards the
great locked gates of the empty mosque.

Renshaw put his hand on Dicky's shoulder. "It's the man in white yonder
you're after?"

Dicky nodded. "It was no use as long as she lived. But she's dead--her
face was under that old Persian shawl--and I'm going to try it on."

"Try what on?"

"Last night I heard she was sick. I heard at noon to-day that she was
gone; and then I got you to come out and see the view!"

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Make him come back."

"From where?"

"From the native quarter and the bazaars. He was for years in Abdin
Palace."

"What do you want him for?"

"It's a little gamble for Egypt. There's no man in Egypt Ismail loves and
fears so much--"

"Except little Dicky Donovan!"

"That's all twaddle. There's no man Ismail fears so much, because he's
the idol of the cafes and the bazaars. He's the Egyptian in Egypt to-day.
You talk about me? Why, I'm the foreigner, the Turk, the robber, the man
that holds the lash over Egypt. I'd go like a wisp of straw if there was
an uprising."

"Will there be an uprising?" The Southerner's fingers moved as though
they were feeling a pistol.

"As sure as that pyramid stands. Everything depends on the kind of
uprising. I want one kind. There may be another."

"That's what you are here for?"

"Exactly."

"Who is he?"

"Wait."

"What is his story?"

"She was." He nodded towards the funeral procession.

"Who was she?"

"She was a slave." Then, after a pause, "She was a genius too. She saw
what was in him. She was waiting--but death couldn't wait, so . . . Every
thing depends. What she asked him to do, he'll do."

"But if she didn't ask?"

"That's it. She was sick only seventeen hours--sick unto death. If she
didn't ask, he may come my way."

Again Dicky leaned out of the minaret, and looked down towards the gates
of the mosque, where the old gatekeeper lounged half-asleep. The noise of
the-procession had died away almost, had then revived, and from beyond
the gates of the mosque could be heard the cry of the mourners: "Salem
ala ahali!"

There came a knocking, and the old porter rose up, shuffled to the great
gates, and opened. For a moment he barred the way, but when the bearers
pointed to the figure in white he stepped aside and salaamed low.

"He is stone-deaf, and hasn't heard, or he'd have let her in fast
enough," said Dicky.

"It's a new thing for a woman to be of importance in an Oriental
country," said Renshaw.

"Ah, that's it! That's where her power was. She, with him, could do
anything. He, with her, could have done anything. . . . Stand back there,
where you can't be seen--quick," added Dicky hurriedly. They both drew
into a corner.

"I'm afraid it was too late. He saw me," added Dicky.

"I'm afraid he did," said Renshaw.

"Never mind. It's all in the day's work. He and I are all right. The only
danger would lie in the crowd discovering us in this holy spot, where the
Muezzin calls to prayer, and giving us what for, before he could
interfere."

"I'm going down from this 'holy spot,'" said Renshaw, and suited the
action to the word.

"Me too, Yankee," said Dicky, and they came halfway down the tower. From
this point they watched the burial, still well above the heads of the
vast crowd, through which the sweetmeat and sherbet sellers ran, calling
their wares and jangling their brass cups.

"What is his name?" said Renshaw.

"Abdalla."

"Hers?"

"Noor-ala-Noor."

"What does that mean?"

"Light from the Light."

II

The burial was over. Hundreds had touched the coffin, taking a last
farewell. The blind men had made a circle round the grave, hiding the
last act of ritual from the multitude. The needful leaves, the graceful
pebbles, had been deposited, the myrtle blooms and flowers had been
thrown, and rice, dates, bread, meat, and silver pieces were scattered
among the people. Some poor men came near to the chief mourner.

"Behold, effendi, may our souls be thy sacrifice, and may God give
coolness to thine eyes, speak to us by the will of God!"

For a moment the white-robed figure stood looking at them in silence;
then he raised his hand and motioned towards the high pulpit, which was
almost underneath the place where Dicky and Renshaw stood. Going over, he
mounted the steps, and the people followed and crowded upon the pulpit.

"A nice jack-pot that," said Renshaw, as he scanned the upturned faces
through the opening in the wall. "A pretty one-eyed lot."

"Shows how they love their country. Their eyes were put out by their
mothers when they were babes, to avoid conscription. . . . Listen,
Yankee: Egypt is talking. Now, we'll see!"

Dicky's lips were pressed tight together, and he stroked his faint
moustache with a thumb-nail meditatively. His eyes were not on the
speaker, but on the distant sky, the Mokattam Hills and the forts
Napoleon had built there. He was listening intently to Abdalla's high,
clear voice, which rang through the courts of the ruined mosque.

"In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful, children of Egypt,
listen. Me ye have known years without number, and ye know that I am of
you, as ye are of me. Our feet are in the same shoes, we gather from the
same date-palm, of the same goolah we drink. My father's father--now in
the bosom of God, praise be to God!--builded this mosque; and my father,
whose soul abides in peace with God, he cherished it till evil days came
upon this land. 'Be your gifts to this mosque neither of silver nor
copper, but of tears and prayers,' said my father, Ebn Abdalla, ere he
unrolled his green turban and wound himself in it for his winding-sheet.
'Though it be till the Karadh-gatherers return, yet shall ye replace nor
stone nor piece of wood, save in the gates thereof, till good days come
once more, and the infidel and the Turk be driven from the land.' Thus
spake my father. . . ."

There came a stir and a murmuring among the crowd, and cries of "Allahu
Akbar!" "Peace, peace!" urged the figure in white. "Nay, make no noise.
This is the house of the dead, of one who hath seen God. . . . 'Nothing
shall be repaired, save the gates of the mosque of Ebn Mahmoud, the
mosque of my father's father,' so said my father. Also said he, 'And one
shall stand at the gates and watch, though the walls crumble away, till
the day when the land shall again be our land, and the chains of the
stranger be forged in every doorway.' . . . But no, ye shall not lift up
your voices in anger. This is the abode of peace, and the mosque is my
mosque, and the dead my dead."

"The dead is our dead, effendi--may God give thee everlasting years!"
called a blind man from the crowd. Up in the tower Dicky had listened
intently, and as the speech proceeded his features contracted; once he
gripped the arm of Renshaw.

"It's coming on to blow," he said, in the pause made by the blind man's
interruption. "There'll be shipwreck somewhere."

"Ye know the way by which I came," continued Abdalla loudly. "Nothing is
hid from you. I came near to the person of the Prince, whom God make wise
while yet the stars of his life give light! In the palace of Abdin none
was preferred before me. I was much in the sun, and mine eyes were
dazzled. Yet in season I spake the truth, and for you I laboured. But not
as one hath a life to give and seeks to give it. For the dazzle that was
in mine eyes hid from me the fulness of your trials. But an end there was
to these things. She came to the palace a slave-Noor-ala-Noor. . . . Nay,
nay, be silent still, my brothers. Her soul was the soul of one born
free. On her lips was wisdom. In her heart was truth like a flaming
sword. To the Prince she spoke not as a slave to a slave, but in high
level terms. He would have married her, but her life lay in the hollow of
her hand, and the hand was a hand to open and shut according as the soul
willed. She was ready to close it so that none save Allah might open it
again. Then in anger the Prince would have given her to his bowab at the
gates, or to the Nile, after the manner of a Turk or a Persian
tyrant--may God purge him of his loathsomeness . . . !"

He paused, as though choking with passion and grief, and waved a hand
over the crowd in agitated command.

"Here's the old sore open at last--which way now?" said Dicky in a
whisper. "It's the toss of a penny where he'll pull up. As I thought
. . . 'Sh!" he added as Renshaw was about to speak.

Abdalla continued. "Then did I stretch forth my hand, and, because I
loved her, a slave with the freedom of God in her soul and on her face, I
said, 'Come with me,' and behold! she came, without a word, for our souls
spake to each other, as it was in the olden world, ere the hearts of men
were darkened. I, an Egyptian of a despised and down-trodden land, where
all men save the rich are slaves, and the rich go in the fear of their
lives; she, a woman from afar, of that ancient tribe who conquered Egypt
long ago--we went forth from the palace alone and penniless. He, the
Prince, dared not follow to do me harm, for my father's father ye knew,
and my father ye knew, and me ye knew since I came into the world, and in
all that we had ye shared while yet we had to give; yea, and he feared
ye. We lived among ye, poor as ye are poor, yet rich for that Egypt was
no poorer because of us." He waved his hand as though to still the storm
he was raising. . . . "If ye call aloud, I will drive ye from this place
of peace, this garden of her who was called Light from the Light. It hath
been so until yesterday, when God stooped and drew the veil from her
face, and she dropped the garment of life and fled from the world. . . .
Go, go hence," he added, his voice thick with sorrow. "But ere ye go,
answer me, as ye have souls that desire God and the joys of Paradise,
will ye follow where I go, when I come to call ye forth? Will ye obey, if
I command?"

"By the will of God, thou hast purchased our hearts we will do thy will
for ever," was the answer of the throng.

"Go then, bring down the infidels that have stood in the minaret above,
where the Muezzin calls to prayer;" sharply called Abdalla, and waved an
arm towards the tower where Dicky and Renshaw were.

An oath broke from the lips of the Southerner; but Dicky smiled. "He's
done it in style," he said. "Come along." He bounded down the steps to
the doorway before the crowd had blocked the way. "They might toss us out
of that minaret," he added, as they both pushed their way into the open.

"You take too many risks, effendi," he called up to Abdalla in French, as
excited Arabs laid hands upon them, and were shaken off. "Call away these
fools!" he added coolly to the motionless figure watching from the pulpit
stairs.

Cries of "Kill-kill the infidels!" resounded on all sides; but Dicky
called up again to Abdalla. "Stop this nonsense, effendi." Then, without
awaiting an answer, he shouted to the crowd: "I am Donovan Pasha. Touch
me, and you touch Ismail. I haven't come to spy, but to sorrow with you
for Noor-ala-Noor, whose soul is with God, praise be to God, and may God
give her spirit to you! I have come to weep for him in whom greatness
speaks; I have come for love of Abdalla the Egyptian. . . . Is it a sin
to stand apart in silence and to weep unseen? Was it a sin against the
Moslem faith that in this minaret I prayed God to comfort Abdalla,
grandson of Ebn Mahmoud, Egyptian of the Egyptians? Was it not I who held
Ismail's hand, when he--being in an anger--would have scoured the bazaars
with his horsemen for Abdalla and Noor-ala-Noor? This is known to
Abdalla, whom God preserve and exalt. Is not Abdalla friend to Donovan
Pasha?"

Dicky was known to hundreds present. There was not a merchant from the
bazaars but had had reason to appreciate his presence, either by friendly
gossip over a cup of coffee, or by biting remarks in Arabic, when they
lied to him, or by the sweep of his stick over the mastaba and through
the chattels of some vile-mouthed pedlar who insulted English ladies whom
he was escorting through the bazaar. They knew his face, his tongue, and
the weight and style of his arm; and though they would cheerfully have
seen him the sacrifice of the Jehad to the cry of Alldhu Akbar! they
respected him for himself, and they feared him because he was near to the
person of Ismail.

He was the more impressive because in the midst of wealth and splendour
he remained poor: he had more than once bought turquoises and opals and
horses and saddlery, which he paid for in instalments, like any little
merchant. Those, therefore, who knew him, were well inclined to leave him
alone, and those who did not know him were impressed by his speech. If it
was true that he was friend to Abdalla, then his fate was in the hand of
God, not theirs. They all had heard of little Donovan Pasha, whom Ismail
counted only less than Gordon Pasha, the mad Englishman, who emptied his
pocket for an old servant, gave his coat to a beggar, and rode in the
desert so fast that no Arab could overtake him.

"Call off your terriers, effendi," said Dicky again in French; for
Renshaw was restive under the hands that were laid on his arm, and the
naboots that threatened him. "My friend here is American. He stands for
the United States in Egypt."

Abdalla had not moved a muscle during the disturbance, or during Dicky's
speech. He seemed but the impassive spectator, though his silence and the
look in his eyes were ominous. It would appear as though he waited to see
whether the Englishman and his friend could free themselves from danger.
If they could, then it was God's will; if they could not, Malaish! Dicky
understood. In this he read Abdalla like a parchment, and though he had
occasion to be resentful, he kept his nerves and his tongue in an equable
mood. He knew that Abdalla would speak now. The Egyptian raised his hand.

"In the name of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful, go your ways," he
said loudly. "It is as Donovan Pasha says, he stayed the hand of Ismail
for my sake. Noor-ala-Noor, the Light from the Light, saw into his heart,
and it was the honest heart of a fool. And these are the words of the
Koran, That the fool is one whom God has made His temple for a season,
thereafter withdrawing. None shall injure the temple. Were not your
hearts bitter against him, and when he spoke did ye not soften? He hath
no inheritance of Paradise, but God shall blot him out in His own time.
Bismillah! God cool his resting-place in that day. Donovan Pasha's hand
is for Egypt, not against her. We are brothers, though the friendship of
man is like the shade of the acacia. Yet while the friendship lives, it
lives. When God wills it to die, it dies. . . ." He waved his hand
towards the gateway, and came slowly down the steep steps.

With a curious look in his eyes, Dicky watched the people go. Another
curious look displaced it and stayed, as Abdalla silently touched his
forehead, his lips, and his heart three times, and then reached out a
hand to Dicky and touched his palm. Three times they touched palms, and
then Abdalla saluted Renshaw in the same fashion, making the gestures
once only.

From the citadel came the boom of the evening gun. Without a word Abdalla
left them, and, going apart, he turned his face towards Mecca and began
his prayers. The court-yard of the mosque was now empty, save for
themselves alone.

The two walked apart near the deserted fountain in the middle of the
court-yard. "The friendship of man is like the shade of the acacia. Yet
while the friendship lives, it lives. When God wills it to die, it dies!"
mused Dicky with a significant smile. "Friendship walks on thin ice in
the East, Yankee."

"See here, Donovan Pasha, I don't like taking this kind of risk without a
gun," said Renshaw.

"You're an official, a diplomat; you mustn't carry a gun."

"It's all very fine, but it was a close shave for both of us. You've got
an object--want to get something out of it. But what do I get for my
money?"

"Perhaps the peace of Europe. Perhaps a page of reminiscences for the
'New York World'. Perhaps some limelight chapters of Egyptian history.
Perhaps a little hari-kari. Don't you feel it in the air?" Dicky drew in
a sibilant breath. "All this in any other country would make you think
you were having a devil of a time. It's on the regular 'menoo' here, and
you don't get a thrill."

"The peace of Europe--Abdalla has something to do with that?"

"Multiply the crowd here a thousand times as much, and that's what he
could represent in one day. Give him a month, and every man in Egypt
would be collecting his own taxes where he could find 'em. Abdalla there
could be prophet and patriot to-morrow, and so he will be soon, and to
evil ends, if things don't take a turn. That Egyptian-Arab has a tongue,
he has brains, he has sorrow, he loved Noor-ala-Noor. Give a man the
egotism of grief, and eloquence, and popularity, and he'll cut as sharp
as the khamsin wind. The dust he'll raise will blind more eyes than you
can see in a day's march, Yankee. You may take my word for it."

Renshaw looked at Dicky thoughtfully. "You're wasting your life here.
You'll get nothing out of it. You're a great man, Donovan Pasha, but
others'll reap where you sowed."

Dicky laughed softly. "I've had more fun for my money than most men of my
height and hair--" he stroked his beardless chin humorously. "And the
best is to come, Yankee. This show is cracking. The audience are going to
rush it."

Renshaw laid a hand on his shoulder. "Pasha, to tell you God's truth, I
wouldn't have missed this for anything; but what I can't make out is, why
you brought me here. You don't do things like that for nothing. You bet
you don't. You'd not put another man in danger, unless he was going to
get something out of it, or somebody was. It looks so damned useless.
You've done your little job by your lonesome, anyhow. I was no use."

"Your turn comes," said Dicky, flashing a look of friendly humour at him.
"America is putting her hand in the dough--through you. You'll know, and
your country'll know, what's going on here in the hum of the dim bazaars.
Ismail's got to see how things stand, and you've got to help me tell him.
You've got to say I tell the truth, when the French gentlemen, who have
their several spokes in the Egyptian wheel, politely say I lie. Is it too
much, or too little, Yankee?"

Renshaw almost gulped. "By Jerusalem!" was all he could say. "And we
wonder why the English swing things as they do!" he growled, when his
breath came freely.

Abdalla had finished his prayers; he was coming towards them. Dicky went
to meet him.

"Abdalla, I'm hungry," he said; "so are you. You've eaten nothing since
sunset, two days ago."

"I am thirsty, saadat el basha," he answered, and his voice was husky.

"Come, I will give you to eat, by the goodness of God."

It was the time of Ramadan, when no Mahommedan eats food or touches
liquid from the rising to the going down of the sun. As the sunset-gun
boomed from the citadel, lids had been snatched off millions of
cooking-pots throughout the land, and fingers had been thrust into the
meat and rice of the evening feast, and their owner had gulped down a
bowl of water. The smell of a thousand cooking-pots now came to them over
the walls of the mosque. Because of it, Abdalla's command to the crowd to
leave had been easier of acceptance. Their hunger had made them
dangerous. Danger was in the air. The tax-gatherers had lately gone their
rounds, and the agents of the Mouffetish had wielded the kourbash without
mercy and to some purpose. It was perhaps lucky that the incident had
occurred within smell of the evening feasts and near the sounding of the
sunset-gun.

III

A half-hour later, as Abdalla thrust his fingers into the dish and handed
Dicky a succulent cucumber filled with fried meat, the latter said to
him: "It is the wish of the Effendina, my friend. It comes as the will of
God; for even as Noor-ala-Noor journeyed to the bosom of God by your
will, and by your prayers, being descended from Mahomet as you are, even
then Ismail, who knew naught of your sorrow, said to me, 'In all Egypt
there is one man, and one only, for whom my soul calls to go into the
desert with Gordon,' and I answered him and said: 'Inshallah, Effendina,
it is Abdalla, the Egyptian.' And he laid his hand upon his head--I have
seen him do that for no man since I came into his presence--and said: 'My
soul calls for him. Find him and bid him to come. Here is my ring.'"

Dicky took from his pocket a signet-ring, which bore a passage from the
Koran, and laid it beside Abdalla's drinking-bowl.

"What is Ismail to me--or the far tribes of the Soudan! Here are my
people," was the reply. Abdalla motioned to the next room, where the
blind men ate their evening meal, and out to the dimly lighted streets
where thousands of narghilehs and cigarettes made little smoky clouds
that floated around white turbans and dark faces. "When they need me, I
will speak; when they cry to me, I will unsheathe the sword of Ebn
Mahmoud, who fought with Mahomet Ali and saved the land from the Turk."

Renshaw watched the game with an eagerness unnoticeable in his manner. He
saw how difficult was the task before Dicky. He saw an Oriental conscious
of his power, whose heart was bitter, and whose soul, in its solitude,
revolted and longed for action. It was not moved by a pure patriotism,
but what it was moved by served. That dangerous temper, which would have
let Dicky, whom he called friend, and himself go down under the naboots
of the funeral multitude, with a "Malaish" on his tongue, was now in
leash, ready to spring forth in the inspired hour; and the justification
need not be a great one. Some slight incident might set him at the head
of a rabble which would sweep Cairo like a storm. Yet Renshaw saw, too,
that once immersed in the work his mind determined on, the Egyptian would
go forward with relentless force. In the excitement of the moment it
seemed to him that Egypt was hanging in the balance.

Dicky was eating sweetmeats like a girl. He selected them with great
care. Suddenly Abdalla touched his hand. "Speak on. Let all thy thoughts
be open--stay not to choose, as thou dost with the sweetmeats. I will
choose: do thou offer without fear. I would not listen to Ismail; to thee
I am but as a waled to bear thy shoes in my hand."

Dicky said nothing for a moment, but appeared to enjoy the comfit he was
eating. He rolled it over his tongue, and his eyes dwelt with a
remarkable simplicity and childlike friendliness on Abdalla. It was as
though there was really nothing vital at stake. . . . Yet he was probing,
probing without avail into Abdalla's mind and heart, and was never more
at sea in his life. It was not even for Donovan Pasha to read the
Oriental thoroughly. This man before him had the duplicity or evasion of
the Oriental; delicately in proportion to his great ability, yet it was
there--though in less degree than in any Arab he had ever known. It was
the more dangerous because so subtle. It held surprise--it was an unknown
quantity. The most that Dicky could do was to feel subtly before him a
certain cloud of the unexpected. He was not sure that he deceived Abdalla
by his simple manner, yet that made little difference. The Oriental would
think not less of him for dissimulation, but rather more. He reached over
and put a comfit in the hand of Abdalla.

"Let us eat together," he said, and dropped a comfit into his own mouth.

Abdalla ate, and Dicky dipped his fingers in the basin before them,
saying, as he lifted them again: "I will speak as to my brother. Ismail
has staked all on the Soudan. If, in the will of God, he is driven from
Berber, from Dongola, from Khartoum, from Darfar, from Kassala, his power
is gone. Egypt goes down like the sun at evening. Ismail will be like a
withered gourd. To establish order and peace and revenue there, he is
sending the man his soul loves, whom the nations trust, to the cities of
the desert. If it be well with Gordon, it will be well with the
desert-cities. But Gordon asks for one man--an Egyptian--who loves the
land and is of the people, to speak for him, to counsel with him, to show
the desert tribes that Egypt gives her noblest to rule and serve them.
There is but one man--Abdalla the Egyptian. A few years yonder in the
desert--power, glory, wealth won for Egypt, the strength of thine arms
known, the piety of thy spirit proven, thy name upon every tongue--on thy
return, who then should fear for Egypt!"

Dicky was playing a dangerous game, and Renshaw almost shrank from his
words. He was firing the Egyptian's mind, but to what course he knew not.
If to the Soudan, well; if to remain, what conflagration might not occur!
Dicky staked all.

"Here, once more, among thy people, returned from conquest and the years
of pilgrimage in the desert, like a prophet of old, thy zeal would lead
the people, and once more Egypt should bloom like the rose. Thou wouldst
be sirdar, mouffetish, pasha, all things soever. This thou wouldst be and
do, thou, Abdalla the Egyptian."

Dicky had made his great throw; and he sat back, perhaps a little paler
than was his wont, but apparently serene and earnest and steady.

The effect upon Abdalla could only be judged by his eyes, which burned
like fire as they fixed upon Dicky's face. The suspense was painful, for
he did not speak for a long time. Renshaw could have shrieked with
excitement. Dicky lighted a cigarette and tossed a comfit at a pariah
dog. At last Abdalla rose. Dicky rose with him.

"Thou, too, hast a great soul, or mine eyes are liars," Abdalla said.
"Thou lovest Egypt also. This Gordon--I am not his friend. I will not go
with him. But if thou goest also with Gordon, then I will go with thee.
If thou dost mean well by Egypt, and thy words are true, thou also wilt
go. As thou speakest, let it be."

A mist came before Dicky's eyes--the world seemed falling into space, his
soul was in a crucible. The struggle was like that of a man with death,
for this must change the course of his life, to what end God only knew.
All that he had been to Egypt, all that Egypt had been to him, came to
him. But he knew that he must not pause. Now was his moment, and now
only. Before the mist had cleared from his eyes he gave his hand into
Abdalla's.

"In God's name, so be it. I also will go with Gordon, and thou with me,"
he said.