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.