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.”