Long years of asceticism had made the man who claimed to be the
long-promised Mahdi almost ethereal in appearance.
There was a brightness about his eyes which fairly fascinated one.
His skin was as smooth as that of a child, his teeth even and regular,
his forehead high and broad, while his jet-black mustache and beard
gave him a look of authority.
It is very easy to believe that the appearance of such a man, added to
the sanctity of his life, impressed the untutored Arabs with a belief
in his pretensions.
Had this Mahdi lived five hundred years ago, he would have subjugated
Europe easily.
“I am the Mahdi!”
Soldiers dropped their weapons and many prostrated themselves on the
ground.
The victory was a very easy one, and the governor of Fashoda fell back
with his troops.
The Mahdi did not pursue, but gathered his forces together and
commenced the march into the mountain fastness.
When a halt was called Sherif el Habib fell on his face, and taking
the Mahdi’s garment in his hands, pressed it to his lips.
“I know thou art the Mahdi!” he said, with reverent solemnity.
The Mahdi bade him rise.
Turning to Mohammed, the Mahdi said:
“Thou, too, believest; I see it in thy mind. Verily the kingdoms of the
world shall know it as well as thou.”
Looking at Ibrahim, this mysterious man exclaimed:
“Young man, thou art delighted because thy uncle hath found me, because
the time of your pleasure is near at hand.”
Ibrahim started as if a bomb had suddenly exploded beneath his feet.
The Mahdi had read his thoughts exactly.
“It is a wonder to thee,” he said, “but thy thoughts I can read.”
“And mine?” asked Max.
For a moment the Mahdi was silent and then replied:
“Yes. Thy people are commercial. They would ally themselves with me
if they could gain by it. Curiosity would prompt them, but thy land I
shall never see.”
“I am not English!” said Max, who thought that the Mahdi had referred
to the British nation.
“Thou speakest truly. Hadst thou been of that accursed infidel nation,
the sword of the faithful would have pierced thee through.”
“Tell me what thou knowest of me?” asked Max.
“Thou hast been in the grave, and mid the bones of those who went
before, left thine own father, and through a girl didst thou escape.”
“It is true. Thy mind reading is wonderful. If ever being a Mahdi
fails, come over to New York and you will just make millions, see if
you don’t.”
Mohammed, Sherif el Habib and Ibrahim laughed heartily at the
characteristic speech delivered by Max. It so clearly corroborated the
mind reading of the Mahdi.
“What are you laughing at?” Max inquired, half vexed at Ibrahim,
especially.
“The Mahdi read your thoughts,” answered Ibrahim.
“That is just why I said he would rake in the dollars in the States.”
A number of the followers of Fashoda’s governor came to the camp and
began asking questions of the Mahdi.
Some asked on matters of faith and doctrine, and the Mahdi answered
with convincing eloquence.
Others asked for signs and miracles.
The Mahdi’s face darkened.
“Oh, ye of little faith!” he commenced, “is it necessary that I should
work signs and wonders before you believe me?”
“Moses did,” suggested one. “So did Mahomet.”
“And a greater than Mahomet is here, for he is the promised Mahdi,”
said Sherif el Habib. “I have journeyed over sea and land, have been
across the great desert, to meet this Imaum, and I can die happy.”
“The governor says all will die that follow him,” exclaimed one of the
unbelievers.
“Yes, the army of Rauf Pasha, and of Egypt and of England will crush
all who follow the Mahdi.”
The Mahdi saw that the unbelievers in his mission were gaining ground,
and he must do something to convince them.
His face wore a scowling expression as he resolved on his course.
“Stand in a circle,” he ordered, and the crowd obeyed, quickly.
“You, and you, and you,” he said, pointing to the unbelieving ones,
“stand in the center.”
Tremblingly the doubters obeyed, and the Mahdi drew from the folds of
his dress a snake skin.
He showed it to them all, and they admitted it was but the skin of a
deadly snake.
“Are you satisfied?”
“Yes.”
He opened out the skin and drew it through his hand until it was
stretched to a length of six or seven feet, and was as stiff as a
walking cane.
He threw it on the ground in front of the unbelievers, and it laid
there, stiff, inert, but yet terribly lifelike.
The men recoiled.
The Mahdi laughed.
“And are you frightened of a poor snake skin?” he asked, sneeringly.
“Wait and see.”
He took up the snake by the end of the tail and it remained stiff.
The thing looked as if it was expanding.
“Surely it is moving,” exclaimed Ibrahim.
“Yes; look. Isn’t it splendid?” asked Max, admiringly.
There was no mistake about it. The thing was endowed with life.
Its forked tongue shot in and out its ugly mouth. Its body writhed and
wriggled, as if it resented being so tightly grasped by its tail.
The Mahdi dropped it. The reptile coiled itself as if ready for a
spring.
The men shrieked.
The unbelievers slunk away.
The believers were delighted and yet awe-stricken at the miracle.
The Mahdi grasped the snake round its neck just as it was about to
spring.
The body straightened out, and looked stiff and lifeless.
It gradually shrunk until it became again the empty piece of skin, so
small that it could be held in the closed hand.
Whether this was trick or miracle, sleight-of-hand performance or some
freak of nature, the reader must determine. The Buddhist fakirs of
India and the Mohammedan dervishes of Persia and Turkey perform the
same thing to-day, save that they place the snake skin on the sand
and cover it with a paper cone. When the cone is removed the skin has
disappeared, and a live snake has taken its place.
The unbelievers fell on their faces, and with one voice declared:
“Thou art the Mahdi!”