The bells that rang were not the bells of Hamley; they were part of no vision or hallucination, and they drew David out of his chamber into the night. A little group of three stood sharply silhouetted against the moonlight, and towering above them was the spare, commanding form of Ebn Ezra Bey. Three camels crouched near, and beside them stood a Nubian lad singing to himself the song of the camel-driver:
For a moment David stood in the doorway listening to the low song of the camel-driver. Then he came forward. As he did so, one of the two who stood with Ebn Ezra moved towards the monastery door slowly. It was a monk with a face which, even in this dim light, showed a deathly weariness. The eyes looked straight before him, as though they saw nothing of the world, only a goal to make, an object to be accomplished. The look of the face went to David’s heart—the kinship of pain was theirs.
“Peace be to thee,” David said gently, as the other passed him.
There was an instant’s pause, and then the monk faced him with fingers uplifted. “The grace of God be upon thee, David,” he said, and his eyes, drawn back from the world where they had been exploring, met the other’s keenly. Then he wheeled and entered the monastery.
“The grace of God be upon thee, David!” How strange it sounded, this Christian blessing in response to his own Oriental greeting, out in this Eastern waste. His own name, too. It was as though he had been transported to the ancient world where “Brethren” were so few that they called each other by their “Christian” names—even as they did in Hamley to-day. In Hamley to-day! He closed his eyes, a tremor running through his body; and then, with an effort which stilled him to peace again, he moved forward, and was greeted by Ebn Ezra, from whom the third member of the little group had now drawn apart nearer to the acacia-tree, and was seated on a rock that jutted from the sand. “What is it?” David asked.
“Wouldst thou not sleep, Saadat? Sleep is more to thee now than aught thou mayst hear from any man. To all thou art kind save thyself.”
“I have rested,” David answered, with a measured calmness, revealing to his friend the change which had come since they parted an hour before. They seated themselves under the palm-tree, and were silent for a moment, then Ebn Ezra said:
“These come from the Place of Lepers.”
David started slightly. “Zaida?” he asked, with a sigh of pity.
“The monk who passed thee but now goes every year to the Place of Lepers with the caravan, for a brother of this order stays yonder with the afflicted, seeing no more the faces of this world which he has left behind. Afar off from each other they stand—as far as eye can see—and after the manner of their faith they pray to Allah, and he who has just left us finds a paper fastened with a stone upon the sand at a certain place where he waits. He touches it not, but reads it as it lies, and, having read, heaps sand upon it. And the message which the paper gives is for me.”
“For thee? Hast thou there one who—”
“There was one, my father’s son, though we were of different mothers; and in other days, so many years ago, he did great wrong to me, and not to me alone,”—the grey head bowed in sorrow—“but to one dearer to me than life. I hated him, and would have slain him, but the mind of Allah is not the mind of man; and he escaped me. Then he was stricken with leprosy, and was carried to the place from whence no leper returns. At first my heart rejoiced; then, at last, I forgave him, Saadat—was he not my father’s son, and was the woman not gone to the bosom of Allah, where is peace? So I forgave and sorrowed for him—who shall say what miseries are those which, minute to minute, day after day, and year upon year, repeat themselves, till it is an endless flaying of the body and burning of the soul! Every year I send a message to him, and every year now this Christian monk—there is no Sheikh-el-Islam yonder—brings back the written message which he finds in the sand.”
“And thee has had a message to-night?”
“The last that may come—God be praised, he goeth to his long home. It was written in his last hour. There was no hope; he is gone. And so, one more reason showeth why I should go where thou goest, Saadat.”
Casting his eyes toward the figure by the acacia-tree, his face clouded and he pondered anxiously, looking at David the while. Twice he essayed to speak, but paused.
David’s eyes followed his look. “What is it? Who is he—yonder?”
The other rose to his feet. “Come and see, Saadat,” he replied. “Seeing, thou wilt know what to do.”
“Zaida—is it of Zaida?” David asked.
“The man will answer for himself, Saadat.” Coming within a few feet of the figure crouched upon the rock, Ebn Ezra paused and stretched out a hand. “A moment, Saadat. Dost thou not see, dost thou not recognise him?”
David intently studied the figure, which seemed unconscious of their presence. The shoulders were stooping and relaxed as though from great fatigue, but David could see that the figure was that of a tall man. The head was averted, but a rough beard covered the face, and, in the light of the fire, one hand that clutched it showed long and skinny and yellow and cruel. The hand fascinated David’s eyes. Where had he seen it? It flashed upon him—a hand clutching a robe, in a frenzy of fear, in the court-yard of the blue tiles, in Kaid’s Palace—Achmet the Ropemaker! He drew back a step.
“Achmet,” he said in a low voice. The figure stirred, the hand dropped from the beard and clutched the knee; but the head was not raised, and the body remained crouching and listless.
“He escaped?” David said, turning to Ebn Ezra Bey.
“I know not by what means—a camel-driver bribed, perhaps, and a camel left behind for him. After the caravan had travelled a day’s journey he joined it. None knew what to do. He was not a leper, and he was armed.”
“Leave him with me,” said David.
Ebn Ezra hesitated. “He is armed; he was thy foe—”
“I am armed also,” David answered enigmatically, and indicated by a gesture that he wished to be left alone. Ebn Ezra drew away towards the palm-tree, and stood at this distance watching anxiously, for he knew what dark passions seize upon the Oriental—and Achmet had many things for which to take vengeance.
David stood for a moment, pondering, his eyes upon the deserter. “God greet thee as thou goest, and His goodness befriend thee,” he said evenly. There was silence, and no movement. “Rise and speak,” he added sternly. “Dost thou not hear? Rise, Achmet Pasha!”
Achmet Pasha! The head of the desolate wretch lifted, the eyes glared at David for an instant, as though to see whether he was being mocked, and then the spare figure stretched itself, and the outcast stood up. The old lank straightness was gone, the shoulders were bent, the head was thrust forward, as though the long habit of looking into dark places had bowed it out of all manhood.
“May grass spring under thy footstep, Saadat,” he said, in a thick voice, and salaamed awkwardly—he had been so long absent from life’s formularies.
“What dost thou here, pasha?” asked David formally. “Thy sentence had no limit.”
“I could not die there,” said the hollow voice, and the head sank farther forward. “Year after year I lived there, but I could not die among them. I was no leper; I am no leper. My penalty was my penalty, and I paid it to the full, piastre by piastre of my body and my mind. It was not one death, it was death every hour, every day I stayed. I had no mind. I could not think. Mummy-cloths were round my brain; but the fire burned underneath and would not die. There was the desert, but my limbs were like rushes. I had no will, and I could not flee. I was chained to the evil place. If I stayed it was death, if I went it was death.”
“Thou art armed now,” said David suggestively. Achmet laid a hand fiercely upon a dagger under his robe. “I hid it. I was afraid. I could not die—my hand was like a withered leaf; it could not strike; my heart poured out like water. Once I struck a leper, that he might strike and kill me; but he lay upon the ground and wept, for all his anger, which had been great, died in him at last. There was none other given to anger there. The leper has neither anger, nor mirth, nor violence, nor peace. It is all the black silent shame—and I was no leper.”
“Why didst thou come? What is there but death for thee here, or anywhere thou goest! Kaid’s arm will find thee; a thousand hands wait to strike thee.”
“I could not die there—Dost thou think that I repent?” he added with sudden fierceness. “Is it that which would make me repent? Was I worse than thousands of others? I have come out to die—to fight and die. Aiwa, I have come to thee, whom I hated, because thou canst give me death as I desire it. My mother was an Arab slave from Senaar, and she was got by war, and all her people. War and fighting were their portion—as they ate, as they drank and slept. In the black years behind me among the Unclean, there was naught to fight—could one fight the dead, and the agony of death, and the poison of the agony! Life, it is done for me—am I not accursed? But to die fighting—ay, fighting for Egypt, since it must be, and fighting for thee, since it must be; to strike, and strike, and strike, and earn death! Must the dog, because he is a dog, die in the slime? Shall he not be driven from the village to die in the clean sand? Saadat, who will see in me Achmet Pasha, who did with Egypt what he willed, and was swept away by the besom in thy hand? Is there in me aught of that Achmet that any should know?”
“None would know thee for that Achmet,” answered David.
“I know, it matters not how—at last a letter found me, and the way of escape—that thou goest again to the Soudan. There will be fighting there—”
“Not by my will,” interrupted David.
“Then by the will of Sheitan the accursed; but there will be fighting—am I not an Arab, do I not know? Thou hast not conquered yet. Bid me go where thou wilt, do what thou wilt, so that I may be among the fighters, and in the battle forget what I have seen. Since I am unclean, and am denied the bosom of Allah, shall I not go as a warrior to Hell, where men will fear me? Speak, Saadat, canst thou deny me this?”
Nothing of repentance, so far as he knew, moved the dark soul; but, like some evil spirit, he would choose the way to his own doom, the place and the manner of it: a sullen, cruel, evil being, unyielding in his evil, unmoved by remorse—so far as he knew. Yet he would die fighting, and for Egypt “and for thee, if it must be so. To strike, to strike, to strike, and earn death!” What Achmet did not see, David saw, the glimmer of light breaking through the cloud of shame and evil and doom. Yonder in the Soudan more problems than one would be solved, more lives than one be put to the extreme test. He did not answer Achmet’s question yet. “Zaida—?” he said in a low voice. The pathos of her doom had been a dark memory.
Achmet’s voice dropped lower as he answered. “She lived till the day her sister died. I never saw her face; but I was sent to bear each day to her door the food she ate and a balass of water; and I did according to my sentence. Yet I heard her voice. And once, at last, the day she died, she spoke to me, and said from inside the hut: ‘Thy work is done, Achmet. Go in peace.’ And that night she lay down on her sister’s grave, and in the morning she was found dead upon it.”
David’s eyes were blinded with tears. “It was too long,” he said at last, as though to himself.
“That day,” continued Achmet, “there fell ill with leprosy the Christian priest from this place who had served in that black service so long; and then a fire leapt up in me. Zaida was gone—I had brought food and a balass of water to her door those many times; there was naught to do, since she was gone—”
Suddenly David took a step nearer to him and looked into the sullen and drooping eyes. “Thou shalt go with me, Achmet. I will do this unlawful act for thee. At daybreak I will give thee orders. Thou shalt join me far from here—if I go to the Soudan,” he added, with a sudden remembrance of his position; and he turned away slowly.
After a moment, with muttered words, Achmet sank down upon the stone again, drew a cake of dourha from his inner robe, and began to eat.
The camel-boy had lighted a fire, and he sat beside it warming his hands at the blaze and still singing to himself:
David stood listening. What power was there in desert life that could make this poor camel-driver, at the end of a long day of weariness and toil and little food and drink, sing a song of content and cheerfulness? The little needed, the little granted, and no thought beyond—save the vision of one who waited in the hut by the onion-field. He gathered himself together and tuned his mind to the scene through which he had just passed, and then to the interview he would have with Kaid on the morrow. A few hours ago he had seen no way out of it all—he had had no real hope that Kaid would turn to him again; but the last two hours had changed all that. Hope was alive in him. He had fought a desperate fight with himself, and he had conquered. Then had come Achmet, unrepentant, degraded still, but with the spirit of Something glowing—Achmet to die for a cause, driven by that Something deep beneath the degradation and the crime. He had hope, and, as the camel-driver’s voice died away, and he lay down with a sheep-skin over him and went instantly to sleep, David drew to the fire and sat down beside it. Presently Ebn Ezra came to urge him to go to bed, but he would not. He had slept, he said; he had slept and rested, and the night was good—he would wait. Then the other brought rugs and blankets, and gave David some, and lay down beside the fire, and watched and waited for he knew not what. Ever and ever his eyes were on David, and far back under the acacia-tree Achmet slept as he had not slept since his doom fell on him.
At last Ebn Ezra Bey also slept; but David was awake with the night and the benevolent moon and the marching stars. The spirit of the desert was on him, filling him with its voiceless music. From the infinite stretches of sand to the south came the irresistible call of life, as soft as the leaves in a garden of roses, as deep as the sea. This world was still, yet there seemed a low, delicate humming, as of multitudinous looms at a distance so great that the ear but faintly caught it—the sound of the weavers of life and destiny and eternal love, the hands of the toilers of all the ages spinning and spinning on; and he was part of it, not abashed or dismayed because he was but one of the illimitable throng.
The hours wore on, but still he sat there, peace in all his heart, energy tingling softly through every vein, the wings of hope fluttering at his ear.
At length the morning came, and, from the west, with the rising sun, came a traveller swiftly, making for where he was. The sleepers stirred around him and waked and rose. The little camp became alive. As the traveller neared the fresh-made fire, David saw that it was Lacey. He went eagerly to meet him.
“Thee has news,” he said. “I see it is so.” He held Lacey’s hand in his.
“Say, you are going on that expedition, Saadat. You wanted money. Will a quarter of a million do?” David’s eyes caught fire.
From the monastery there came the voices of the monks:
Nahoum had forgotten one very important thing: that what affected David as a Christian in Egypt would tell equally against himself. If, in his ill-health and dejection, Kaid drank deep of the cup of Mahomet, the red eyes of fanaticism would be turned upon the Armenian, as upon the European Christian. He had forgotten it for the moment, but when, coming into Kaid’s Palace, a little knot of loiterers spat upon the ground and snarled, “Infidel—Nazarene!” with contempt and hatred, the significance of the position came home to him. He made his way to a far quarter of the Palace, thoughtfully weighing the circumstances, and was met by Mizraim.
Mizraim salaamed. “The height of thy renown be as the cedar of Lebanon, Excellency.”
“May thy feet tread the corn of everlasting fortune, son of Mahomet.”
They entered the room together. Nahoum looked at Mizraim curiously. He was not satisfied with what he saw. Mizraim’s impassive face had little expression, but the eyes were furtively eager and sinister.
“Well, so it is, and if it is, what then?” asked Nahoum coolly.
“Ki di, so it is,” answered Mizraim, and a ghastly smile came to his lips. This infidel pasha, Nahoum, had a mind that pierced to the meaning of words ere they were spoken. Mizraim’s hand touched his forehead, his breast, his lips, and, clasping and unclasping his long, snakelike fingers, he began the story he had come to tell.
“The Inglesi, whom Allah confound, the Effendina hath blackened by a look, his words have smitten him in the vital parts—”
“Mizraim, thou dove, speak to the purpose!” Mizraim showed a dark pleasure at the interruption. Nahoum was impatient, anxious; that made the tale better worth telling.
“Sharif and the discontented ones who dare not act, like the vultures, they flee the living man, but swoop upon the corpse. The consuls of those countries who love not England or Claridge Pasha, and the holy men, and the Cadi, all scatter smouldering fires. There is a spirit in the Palace and beyond which is blowing fast to a great flame.”
“Then, so it is, great one, and what bodes it?”
“It may kill the Inglesi; but it will also sweep thee from the fields of life where thou dost flourish.”
“It is not against the foreigner, but against the Christian, Mizraim?”
“Thy tongue hath wisdom, Excellency.”
“Thou art a Muslim—”
“Why do I warn thee? For service done to me; and because there is none other worth serving in Egypt. Behold, it is my destiny to rule others, to serve thee.”
“Once more thy turban full of gold, Mizraim, if thou dost service now that hath meaning and is not a belching of wind and words. Thou hast a thing to say—say it, and see if Nahoum hath lost his wit, or hath a palsied arm.”
“Then behold, pasha. Are not my spies in all the Palace? Is not my scourge heavier than the whip of the horned horse? Ki di, so it is. This I have found. Sharif hath, with others, made a plot which hath enough powder in it to shake Egypt, and toss thee from thy high place into the depths. There is a Christian—an Armenian, as it chances; but he was chosen because he was a Christian, and for that only. His name is Rahib. He is a tent-maker. He had three sons. They did kill an effendi who had cheated them of their land. Two of them were hanged last week; the other, caught but a few days since, is to hang within three days. To-day Kaid goes to the Mosque of Mahmoud, as is the custom at this festival. The old man hath been persuaded to attempt the life of Kaid, upon condition that his son—his Benjamin—is set free. It will be but an attempt at Kaid’s life, no more; but the cry will go forth that a Christian did the thing; and the Muslim flame will leap high.”
“And the tent-maker?” asked Nahoum musingly, though he was turning over the tale in his mind, seeing behind it and its far consequences.
“Malaish, what does it matter! But he is to escape, and they are to hang another Christian in his stead for the attempt on Kaid. It hath no skill, but it would suffice. With the dervishes gone malboos, and the faithful drunk with piety—canst thou not see the issue, pasha? Blood will be shed.”
“The Jews of Europe would be angry,” said Nahoum grimly but evenly. “The loans have been many, and Kaid has given a lien by the new canal at Suez. The Jews will be angry,” he repeated, “and for every drop of Christian blood shed there would be a lanced vein here. But that would not bring back Nahoum Pasha,” he continued cynically. “Well, this is thy story, Mizraim; this is what they would do. Now what hast thou done to stop their doing?”
“Am I not a Muslim? Shall I give Sharif to the Nile?”
Nahoum smiled darkly. “There is a simpler way. Thy mind ever runs on the bowstring and the sword. These are great, but there is a greater. It is the mocking finger. At midnight, when Kaid goes to the Mosque Mahmoud, a finger will mock the plotters till they are buried in confusion. Thou knowest the governor of the prisons—has he not need of something? Hath he never sought favours of thee?”
“Bismillah, but a week ago!”
“Then, listen, thou shepherd of the sheep—”
He paused, as there came a tap at the door, and a slave entered hurriedly and addressed Nahoum. “The effendi, Ebn Ezra Bey, whom thou didst set me to watch, he hath entered the Palace, and asks for the Effendina.”
Nahoum started, and his face clouded, but his eyes flashed fire. He tossed the slave a coin. “Thou hast done well. Where is he now?”
“He waits in the hall, where is the statue of Mehemet Ali and the lions.”
“In an hour, Mizraim, thou shalt hear what I intend. Peace be to thee!”
“And on thee, peace!” answered Mizraim, as Nahoum passed from the room, and walked hastily towards the hall where he should find Ebn Ezra Bey. Nearing the spot, he brought his step to a deliberate slowness, and appeared not to notice the stately Arab till almost upon him.
“Salaam, effendi,” he said smoothly, yet with inquisition in his eye, with malice in his tone.
“Salaam, Excellency.”
“Thou art come on the business of thy master?”
“Who is my master, Excellency?”
“Till yesterday it was Claridge Pasha. Hast thou then forsaken him in his trouble—the rat from the sinking ship?”
A flush passed over Ebn Ezra Bey’s face, and his mouth opened with a gasp of anger. Oriental though he was, he was not as astute as this Armenian Christian, who was purposely insulting him, that he might, in a moment of heat, snatch from him the business he meant to lay before Kaid. Nahoum had not miscalculated.
“I have but one master, Excellency,” Ebn Ezra answered quietly at last, “and I have served him straightly. Hast thou done likewise?”
“What is straight to thee might well be crooked to me, effendi.”
“Thou art crooked as the finger of a paralytic.”
“Yet I have worked in peace with Claridge Pasha for these years past, even until yesterday, when thou didst leave him to his fate.”
“His ship will sail when thine is crumbling on the sands, and all thou art is like a forsaken cockatrice’s nest.”
“Is it this thou hast come to say to the Effendina?”
“What I have come to say to the Effendina is for the world to know after it hath reached his ears. I know thee, Nahoum Pasha. Thou art a traitor. Claridge Pasha would abolish slavery, and thou dost receive great sums of gold from the slave-dealers to prevent it.”
“Is it this thou wilt tell Kaid?” Nahoum asked with a sneer. “And hast thou proofs?”
“Even this day they have come to my hands from the south.”
“Yet I think the proofs thou hast will not avail; and I think that thou wilt not show them to Kaid. The gift of second thinking is a great gift. Thou must find greater reason for seeking the Effendina.”
“That too shall be. Gold thou hadst to pay the wages of the soldiers of the south. Thou didst keep the gold and order the slave-hunt; and the soldiers of the Effendina have been paid in human flesh and blood—ten thousand slaves since Claridge Pasha left the Soudan, and three thousand dead upon the desert sands, abandoned by those who hunted them when water grew scarce and food failed. To-day shall see thy fall.”
At his first words Nahoum had felt a shock, from which his spirit reeled; but an inspiration came to him on the moment; and he listened with a saturnine coolness to the passionate words of the indignant figure towering above him. When Ebn Ezra had finished, he replied quietly:
“It is even as thou sayest, effendi. The soldiers were paid in slaves got in the slave-hunt; and I have gold from the slave-dealers. I needed it, for the hour is come when I must do more for Egypt than I have ever done.”
With a gesture of contempt Ebn Ezra made to leave, seeing an official of the Palace in the distance. Nahoum stopped him. “But, one moment ere thou dost thrust thy hand into the cockatrice’s den. Thou dost measure thyself against Nahoum? In patience and with care have I trained myself for the battle. The bulls of Bashan may roar, yet my feet are shod with safety. Thou wouldst go to Kaid and tell him thy affrighted tale. I tell thee, thou wilt not go. Thou hast reason yet, though thy blood is hot. Thou art to Claridge Pasha like a brother—as to his uncle before him, who furnished my father’s palace with carpets. The carpets still soften the fall of my feet in my father’s palace, as they did soften the fall of my brother’s feet, the feet of Foorgat Bey.”
He paused, looking at Ebn Ezra with quiet triumph, though his eyes had ever that smiling innocence which had won David in days gone by. He was turning his words over on the tongue with a relish born of long waiting.
“Come,” he said presently—“come, and I will give thee reason why thou wilt not speak with Kaid to-day. This way, effendi.”
He led the other into a little room hung about with rugs and tapestry, and, going to the wall, he touched a spring. “One moment here, effendi,” he added quietly. The room was as it had been since David last stood within it.
“In this room, effendi,” Nahoum said with cold deliberation, “Claridge Pasha killed my brother, Foorgat Bey.”
Ebn Ezra fell back as though he had been struck. Swiftly Nahoum told him the whole truth—even to the picture of the brougham, and the rigid, upright figure passing through the night to Foorgat’s palace, the gaunt Mizraim piloting the equipage of death.
“I have held my peace for my own reasons, effendi. Wilt thou then force me to speak? If thou dost still cherish Claridge Pasha, wilt thou see him ruined? Naught but ruin could follow the telling of the tale at this moment—his work, his life, all done. The scandal, the law, vengeance! But as it is now, Kaid may turn to him again; his work may yet go on—he has had the luck of angels, and Kaid is fickle. Who can tell?”
Abashed and overwhelmed, Ebn Ezra Bey looked at him keenly. “To tell of Foorgat Bey would ruin thee also,” he said. “That thou knowest. The trick—would Kaid forgive it? Claridge Pasha would not be ruined alone.”
“Be it so. If thou goest to Kaid with thy story, I go to Egypt with mine. Choose.”
Ebn Ezra turned to go. “The high God judge between him and thee,” he said, and, with bowed head, left the Palace.
At the sound of the words, announced in a loud voice, hundreds of heads were turned towards the entrance of the vast salon, resplendent with gilded mirrors, great candelabra and chandeliers, golden hangings, and divans glowing with robes of yellow silk.
It was the anniversary of Kaid’s succession, and all entitled to come poured into the splendid chamber. The showy livery of the officials, the loose, spacious, gorgeous uniforms of the officers, with the curved jewelled scimitars and white turbans, the rich silk robes of the Ulema, robe over robe of coloured silk with flowing sleeves and sumptuous silken vests, the ample dignity of noble-looking Arabs in immense white turbans, the dark straight Stambouli coat of the officials, made a picture of striking variety and colour and interest.
About the centre of the room, laying palm to palm again and yet again, touching lips and forehead and breast, speaking with slow, leisurely, voices, were two Arab sheikhs from the far Soudan. One of these showed a singular interest in the movements of Nahoum Pasha as he entered the chamber, and an even greater interest in David when he was announced; but as David, in his journey up the chamber, must pass near him, he drew behind a little group of officials, who whispered to each other excitedly as David came on. More than once before this same Sheikh Abdullah had seen David, and once they had met, and had made a treaty of amity, and Abdullah had agreed to deal in slaves no more; and yet within three months had sent to Cairo two hundred of the best that could be found between Khartoum and Senaar. His business, of which Ebn Ezra Bey had due knowledge, had now been with Nahoum. The business of the other Arab, a noble-looking and wiry Bedouin from the South, had been with Ebn Ezra Bey, and each hid his business from his friend. Abdullah murmured to himself as David passed—a murmur of admiration and astonishment. He had heard of the disfavour in which the Inglesi was; but, as he looked at David’s face with its quiet smile, the influence which he felt in the desert long ago came over him again.
“By Allah,” he said aloud abstractedly, “it is a face that will not hide when the khamsin blows! Who shall gainsay it? If he were not an infidel he would be a Mahdi.”
To this his Bedouin friend replied: “As the depths of the pool at Ghebel Farik, so are his eyes. You shall dip deep and you shall not find the bottom. Bismillah, I would fight Kaid’s Nubians, but not this infidel pasha!”
Never had David appeared to such advantage. The victory over himself the night before, the message of hope that had reached him at the monastery in the desert, the coming of Lacey, had given him a certain quiet masterfulness not reassuring to his foes.
As he entered the chamber but now, there flashed into his mind the scene six years ago when, an absolute stranger, he had stepped into this Eastern salon, and had heard his name called out to the great throng: “Claridge efendi!”
He addressed no one, but he bowed to the group of foreign consuls-general, looking them steadily in the eyes. He knew their devices and what had been going on of late, he was aware that his fall would mean a blow to British prestige, and the calmness of his gaze expressed a fortitude which had a disconcerting effect upon the group. The British Consul-General stood near by. David advanced to him, and, as he did so, the few who surrounded the Consul-General fell back. David held out his hand. Somewhat abashed and ill at ease, the Consul-General took it.
“Have you good news from Downing Street?” asked David quietly.
The Consul-General hesitated for an instant, and then said: “There is no help to be had for you or for what you are doing in that quarter.” He lowered his voice. “I fear Lord Eglington does not favour you; and he controls the Foreign Minister. I am very sorry. I have done my best, but my colleagues, the other consuls, are busy—with Lord Eglington.”
David turned his head away for an instant. Strange how that name sent a thrill through him, stirred his blood! He did not answer the Consul-General, and the latter continued:
“Is there any hope? Is the breach with Kaid complete?”
David smiled gravely. “We shall see presently. I have made no change in my plans on the basis of a breach.”
At that moment he caught sight of Nahoum some distance away and moved towards him. Out of the corner of his eye Nahoum saw David coming, and edged away towards that point where Kaid would enter, and where the crowd was greater. As he did so Kaid appeared. A thrill went through the chamber. Contrary to his custom, he was dressed in the old native military dress of Mehemet Ali. At his side was a jewelled scimitar, and in his turban flashed a great diamond. In his hand he carried a snuff-box, covered with brilliants, and on his breast were glittering orders.
The eyes of the reactionaries flashed with sinister pleasure when they saw Kaid. This outward display of Orientalism could only be a reflex of the mind. It was the outer symbol of Kaid’s return to the spirit of the old days, before the influence of the Inglesi came upon him. Every corrupt and intriguing mind had a palpitation of excitement.
In Nahoum the sight of Kaid produced mixed feelings. If, indeed, this display meant reaction towards an entourage purely Arab, Egyptian, and Muslim, then it was no good omen for his Christian self. He drew near, and placed himself where Kaid could see him. Kaid’s manner was cheerful, but his face showed the effect of suffering, physical and mental. Presently there entered behind him Sharif Bey, whose appearance was the signal for a fresh demonstration. Now, indeed, there could be no doubt as to Kaid’s reaction. Yet if Sharif had seen Mizraim’s face evilly gloating near by he would have been less confident.
David was standing where Kaid must see him, but the Effendina gave no sign of recognition. This was so significant that the enemies of David rejoiced anew. The day of the Inglesi was over. Again and again did Kaid’s eye wander over David’s head.
David remained calm and watchful, neither avoiding nor yet seeking the circle in which Kaid moved. The spirit with which he had entered the room, however, remained with him, even when he saw Kaid summon to him some of the most fanatical members of the court circle, and engage them in talk for a moment. But as this attention grew more marked, a cloud slowly gathered in the far skies of his mind.
There was one person in the great assembly, however, who seemed to be unduly confident. It was an ample, perspiring person in evening dress, who now and again mopped a prematurely bald head, and who said to himself, as Kaid talked to the reactionaries:
“Say, Kald’s overdoing it. He’s putting potted chicken on the butter. But it’s working all right-r-i-g-h-t. It’s worth the backsheesh!”
At this moment Kaid fastened David with his look, and spoke in a tone so loud that people standing at some distance were startled.
“Claridge Pasha!”
In the hush that followed David stepped forward. “May the bounty of the years be thine, Saadat,” Kaid said in a tone none could misunderstand.
“May no tree in thy orchard wither, Effendina,” answered David in a firm voice.
Kaid beckoned him near, and again he spoke loudly: “I have proved thee, and found thee as gold tried seven times by the fire, Saadat. In the treasury of my heart shall I store thee up. Thou art going to the Soudan to finish the work Mehemet Ali began. I commend thee to Allah, and will bid thee farewell at sunrise—I and all who love Egypt.”
There was a sinister smile on his lips, as his eyes wandered over the faces of the foreign consuls-general. The look he turned on the intriguers of the Palace was repellent; he reserved for Sharif a moody, threatening glance, and the desperate hakim shrank back confounded from it. His first impulse was to flee from the Palace and from Cairo; but he bethought himself of the assault to be made on Kaid by the tent-maker, as he passed to the mosque a few hours later, and he determined to await the issue of that event. Exchanging glances with confederates, he disappeared, as Kaid laid a hand on David’s arm and drew him aside.
After viewing the great throng cynically for a moment Kaid said: “To-morrow thou goest. A month hence the hakim’s knife will find the thing that eats away my life. It may be they will destroy it and save me; if not, we shall meet no more.”
David looked into his eyes. “Not in a month shall thy work be completed, Effendina. Thou shalt live. God and thy strong will shall make it so.”
A light stole over the superstitious face. “No device or hatred, or plot, has prevailed against thee,” Kaid said eagerly. “Thou hast defeated all—even when I turned against thee in the black blood of despair. Thou hast conquered me even as thou didst Harrik.”
“Thou dost live,” returned David drily. “Thou dost live for Egypt’s sake, even as Harrik died for Egypt’s sake, and as others shall die.”
“Death hath tracked thee down how often! Yet with a wave of the hand thou hast blinded him, and his blow falls on the air. Thou art beset by a thousand dangers, yet thou comest safe through all. Thou art an honest man. For that I besought thee to stay with me. Never didst thou lie to me. Good luck hath followed thee. Kismet! Stay with me, and it may be I shall be safe also. This thought came to me in the night, and in the morning was my reward, for Lacey effendi came to me and said, even as I say now, that thou wilt bring me good luck; and even in that hour, by the mercy of God, a loan much needed was negotiated. Allah be praised!”
A glint of humour shot into David’s eyes. Lacey—a loan—he read it all! Lacey had eased the Prince Pasha’s immediate and pressing financial needs—and, “Allah be praised!” Poor human nature—backsheesh to a Prince regnant!
“Effendina,” he said presently, “thou didst speak of Harrik. One there was who saved thee then—”
“Zaida!” A change passed over Kaid’s face.
“Speak! Thou hast news of her? She is gone?” Briefly David told him how Zaida was found upon her sister’s grave. Kaid’s face was turned away as he listened.
“She spoke no word of me?” Kaid said at last. “To whom should she speak?” David asked gently. “But the amulet thou gavest her, set with one red jewel, it was clasped in her hand in death.”
Suddenly Kaid’s anger blazed. “Now shall Achmet die,” he burst out. “His hands and feet shall be burnt off, and he shall be thrown to the vultures.”
“The Place of the Lepers is sacred even from thee, Effendina,” answered David gravely. “Yet Achmet shall die even as Harrik died. He shall die for Egypt and for thee, Effendina.”
Swiftly he drew the picture of Achmet at the monastery in the desert. “I have done the unlawful thing, Effendina,” he said at last, “but thou wilt make it lawful. He hath died a thousand deaths—all save one.”
“Be it so,” answered Kaid gloomily, after a moment; then his face lighted with cynical pleasure as he scanned once more the faces of the crowd before him. At last his eyes fastened on Nahoum. He turned to David.
“Thou dost still desire Nahoum in his office?” he asked keenly.
A troubled look came into David’s eyes, then it cleared away, and he said firmly: “For six years we have worked together, Effendina. I am surety for his loyalty to thee.”
“And his loyalty to thee?”
A pained look crossed over David’s face again, but he said with a will that fought all suspicion down: “The years bear witness.”
Kaid shrugged his shoulders slightly. “The years have perjured themselves ere this. Yet, as thou sayest, Nahoum is a Christian,” he added, with irony scarcely veiled.
Now he moved forward with David towards the waiting court. David searched the groups of faces for Nahoum in vain. There were things to be said to Nahoum before he left on the morrow, last suggestions to be given. Nahoum could not be seen.
Nahoum was gone, as were also Sharif and his confederates, and in the lofty Mosque of Mahmoud soft lights were hovering, while the Sheikh-el-Islam waited with Koran and scimitar for the ruler of Egypt to pray to God and salute the Lord Mahomet.
At the great gateway in the Street of the Tent Makers Kaid paused on his way to the Mosque Mahmoud. The Gate was studded with thousands of nails, which fastened to its massive timbers relics of the faithful, bits of silk and cloth, and hair and leather; and here from time immemorial a holy man had sat and prayed. At the gateway Kaid salaamed humbly, and spoke to the holy man, who, as he passed, raised his voice shrilly in an appeal to Allah, commending Kaid to mercy and everlasting favour. On every side eyes burned with religious zeal, and excited faces were turned towards the Effendina. At a certain point there were little groups of men with faces more set than excited. They had a look of suppressed expectancy. Kald neared them, passed them, and, as he did so, they looked at each other in consternation. They were Sharif’s confederates, fanatics carefully chosen. The attempt on Kaid’s life should have been made opposite the spot where they stood. They craned their necks in effort to find the Christian tent-maker, but in vain.
Suddenly they heard a cry, a loud voice calling. It was Rahib the tent-maker. He was beside Kaid’s stirrups, but no weapon was in his hand; and his voice was calling blessings down on the Effendina’s head for having pardoned and saved from death his one remaining son, the joy of his old age. In all the world there was no prince like Kaid, said the tent-maker; none so bountiful and merciful and beautiful in the eyes of men. God grant him everlasting days, the beloved friend of his people, just to all and greatly to be praised.
As the soldiers drove the old man away with kindly insistence—for Kaid had thrown him a handful of gold—Mizraim, the Chief Eunuch, laughed wickedly. As Nahoum had said, the greatest of all weapons was the mocking finger. He and Mizraim had had their way with the governor of the prisons, and the murderer had gone in safety, while the father stayed to bless Kaid. Rahib the tent-maker had fooled the plotters. They were mad in derision. They did not know that Kaid was as innocent as themselves of having pardoned the tent-maker’s son. Their moment had passed; they could not overtake it; the match had spluttered and gone out at the fuel laid for the fire of fanaticism.
The morning of David’s departure came. While yet it was dark he had risen, and had made his last preparations. When he came into the open air and mounted, it was not yet sunrise, and in that spectral early light, which is all Egypt’s own, Cairo looked like some dream-city in a forgotten world. The Mokattam Hills were like vast dun barriers guarding and shutting in the ghostly place, and, high above all, the minarets of the huge mosque upon the lofty rocks were impalpable fingers pointing an endless flight. The very trees seemed so little real and substantial that they gave the eye the impression that they might rise and float away. The Nile was hung with mist, a trailing cloud unwound from the breast of the Nile-mother. At last the sun touched the minarets of the splendid mosque with shafts of light, and over at Ghizeh and Sakkarah the great pyramids, lifting their heads from the wall of rolling blue mist below, took the morning’s crimson radiance with the dignity of four thousand years.
On the decks of the little steamer which was to carry them south David, Ebn Ezra, Lacey, and Mahommed waited. Presently Kaid came, accompanied by his faithful Nubians, their armour glowing in the first warm light of the rising sun, and crowds of people, who had suddenly emerged, ran shrilling to the waterside behind him.
Kaid’s pale face had all last night’s friendliness, as he bade David farewell with great honour, and commended him to the care of Allah; and the swords of the Nubians clashed against their breasts and on their shields in salaam.
But there was another farewell to make; and it was made as David’s foot touched the deck of the steamer. Once again David looked at Nahoum as he had done six years ago, in the little room where they had made their bond together. There was the same straight look in Nahoum’s eyes. Was he not to be trusted? Was it not his own duty to trust? He clasped Nahoum’s hand in farewell, and turned away. But as he gave the signal to start, and the vessel began to move, Nahoum came back. He leaned over the widening space and said in a low tone, as David again drew near:
“There is still an account which should be settled, Saadat. It has waited long; but God is with the patient. There is the account of Foorgat Bey.”
The light fled from David’s eyes and his heart stopped beating for a moment. When his eyes saw the shore again Nahoum was gone with Kaid.