AFTER a long, weary night, made seemingly longer by the slow passage through the tortuous channels, threatened by reefs and coral shallows, the “Gate of Dirge” was passed. The pilot dropped, the P. & O. liner entered through the picturesque Dacht il Mayum, the sluggish waves of the Red Sea.

Through the wondrous waters the ship cut her way energetically. The moon had set long since, the east was bathed in sulphur light and one by one the stars dropped out of existence.

The lower decks, forsaken the evening before, are now lively with passengers. The heat had made sleep impossible and now, one after another, they came up to breathe the reviving morning air.

What wind blows is from the starboard, but the port side is the shadier for the greater part of the day. It is this side which is quickly taken possession of by the Mohammedan part of the passengers. The gaunt Sikh, bewhiskered and beturbaned, the Persian venders with their fierce mustachios and fiercer eyes, shrewd-looking Syrians and fleshy Mamelukes, all congregate or segregate according to their individual desires, and all are bent upon their morning worship.

More or less gaudily colored patches of carpets and prayer rugs are spread upon the boards, devout heads bow down from prostrate bodies, turned to the east, to the rising sun, to praise Allah and to pray to Mohammed his prophet. They will turn to the east, even though Mecca is due north of the boat!

On the promenade and hurricane decks a couple of early risers are taking their constitutionals. On the bridge strides the fresh-looking skipper, and a neat second officer in glaring white is adjusting his sextant as he awaits the sun’s coming. A few deckhands and sailors are holystoning the decks and adjusting the striped awnings.

Upon the free and lofty upper structure in the broad space between the cabins and the captain’s quarters some privileged travelers, to judge by the important bearing of the men and the well-groomed appearance of the ladies, are languidly settling themselves down. They show scarce a sign of sleepless tossing in heated berths. One of these, a tall, lean man in Pongee, cap and scarf to match, bearing carefully trimmed little chops below the grayish hair, is Sir Balingbroke-Smith, Under-Secretary of the Colonies. He is holding forth to his daughter Muriel on the history of the islands which are just sinking below the southern horizon.

Miss Muriel endeavors to show some interest, appearing to listen with careful attention; but her eyes are wandering around the deck. She is waiting for the appearance of the stranger who had come on board the evening before and whom the Captain had discussed at dinner. The new passenger had declined coming to table as he needed “civilizing.” So Captain Pollard had put it; but he was a gentleman, though an American, who had spent the last eighteen months in the wilds of the Soudan and the mountains of Somali, instead of lounging at Shepard’s Hotel at Cairo or at the Casino at Nice. He was young, rich, independent and “as fine a chap as ever came out of Eton or Oxford, my lord.”

“Muriel seems tired or sleepy, or both,” said her aunt and duenna, the Hon. Mrs. Fitzhugh, the wife of an Indian officer. The good lady was returning to winter in London to recuperate after a trying season with her husband at Lahore, and incidentally was acting as chaperon to Miss Muriel. The ladies of the group duly agreed. Who would dare to differ from her? But all are casting side glances in the direction in which Miss Muriel insists on keeping her pretty face.

The Rev. Mr. Akley, in sober gray, with solemn face and pained, bloodshot eyes, is gazing intently at a group of prostrated orientals, a martyr to faith and duty. The latter, however, do not seem to mind the sad, pained expression in the eyes of the churchman. But even the countenance of the reverend gentleman is somewhat askew from the vertical—since he also is partaking in the general interest. Will this much-talked-of young man ever make his appearance?

And now that the sun has risen above the slight mist to the east, chairs are being pushed into shady and cool places. Chatting and fussing and good-natured pushing, the one business of the day must he attended to first—how to avoid the heat of the day.

“It is going to be beastly hot! If one could but get one’s Times and know what the world is doing? Muriel, my dear, if you insist upon taking such violent exercise before your breakfast you will not be really comfortable for the rest of the day. May I remind you that the next few days are the most trying of the voyage and that the best means to make it bearable—would be—a-a-absolute rest—very little food and liquid refreshments?”

Sir Balingbroke was very impressive. As breakfast had been mentioned by so high an authority as the Under-Secretary of the Colonies, the subject became now the general topic of conversation.

But the ladies managed to turn it into a more interesting channel, and Sir Balingbroke was gradually drawn into speaking of the new passenger whom he had met in the smoking room.“A very estimable young man, I believe; Captain Pollard tells me that he met him on transatlantic liners—he says he is a well-connected, affluent American—a Mr. Morton, I think; quite refined and unassuming. I understand he has been engaged on some exploring or observation work in southern Egypt and the adjacent territory. It may be—semi-officially of course—that he is under the wings of the Royal Geographical Society. He mentioned that Lord Salisbury was kind enough to recommend him to the authorities—expects to go to London to report the results of his research. Very nice fellow, indeed.”

Eight bells, and shortly after the gong sounds for breakfast—the first important function of the day. The little coterie gathered on the forepart of the deck abandon chairs and troop down to the dining saloon.

In the saloon Mr. Morton was duly presented to the ladies at the Captain’s table and to a few of the gentlemen to whom he had not been introduced the evening before in the “smoker.”

The Hon. Mrs. Fitzhugh sarcastically remarked that there were still some men who were old-fashioned enough to remain on deck with the ladies after dinner—denying themselves their whiskey and soda. The men thus referred to tried to look pleased, but those who had sinned did not seem to mind the lady’s sarcasm.

Captain Pollard was evidently taking great pains to impress those sitting around the table that Mr. Morton was a man of importance. He singled him out in conversation and gave marked attention to what the traveler said. On a liner everyone takes his cue from the captain, and the American immediately became a full fledged member of the select coterie.

Mr. Morton frankly and almost boyishly admitted his delight at being once more in civilized surroundings. He smilingly pleaded guilty to an enjoyment of the society of ladies and hoped that his manners had not deteriorated. The ladies were charmed with him. He was good to look at and his pleasant voice and delightfully sympathetic smile won them over completely. His ignorance of the news of the day afforded them an opportunity for further conversation, and he listened with an old-world courtesy that only educated Americans show to their women. The ladies lionized him.

To the many inquiries about his adventures in the desert, he answered good-naturedly and in a rather off-hand way. Life in the desert had its interesting side and the months he had spent there had enabled him to gather valuable data which he expected to apply to work in the Great Basin of his own country, where his father and the federal government were interested in the question of irrigation. There had not been much danger in his adventures, for the natives were human and rather helpful than otherwise.

As he sat at table enjoying anew the amenities of civilized society, Morton confessed to himself that really the most important thing to him was the stimulating and pleasant expectation of being soon home again among his own people, with his dear mother and fine-souled, humor-loving father. How pleased and happy they would be to have him with them again! How jolly to sit once more in the cozy den, his friends and loved ones listening to his tales of adventure! Unconsciously his mind wandered to scenes of his intimate family circle. When the longing heart travels homeward, the half-way inns are but little conveniences on the journey; we take advantage of them because we must; always the heart’s eye looks longingly forward to its goal—home. His little sister—by George, she would be a young woman now, like the blue-eyed, clear-skinned English girl across the table, and better looking, if the promise of earlier remembrance was to be fulfilled. Two years do make a great change!

Yes—he must stop off at Paris for a couple of days and buy his sister and mother something worth bringing home. His heart grew warm as he pictured their happy eyes and heard their pleased exclamations. And his father! Won’t the governor be proud of the reports he was bringing back. Figures don’t lie, his father used to say. And what else should he bring him? Yes—he would have to go to London, too.

He hoped the fine old Nubian sarcophagus which he had shipped by stealth from Assab by the old rascal Ben Bandar (the old chap surely dealt in slaves on the sly) on a Greek sailing vessel had reached New York safely. What would his neighbor, Sir Balingbroke, have said if he knew that the Egyptian custom-house servants were the same old grafters they had been before Alexandria was bombarded and the Khedive all powerful on the Nile?

Almost with a start he awoke to his surroundings, mumbling some words of apology for his absent-mindedness. Mrs. Fitzhugh had addressed some remarks to him—Miss Muriel’s eyes were dancing as she smiled wickedly at him. Mrs. Fitzhugh haughtily forgave him.

This meeting at the table was the type of many others which took place during the next days, varied with some small talk on deck, and broken by some lengthier and more interesting conversations in the smoking room.

Whether the ladies approved or not, the shady depths of the small “smoker” on the upper deck proved a veritable Mecca for all the men. Here one always was pretty sure to find some of the passengers enjoying their cigars or cigarettes or even pipes, chatting of trade and drinks, horses and games, politics and policies.

Here was to be found the man who could foretell the number of knots the boat would cover that day; who knew the hour they would sight the African shore again. Another would descant of the ever-inspiring topic—the great Canal—the time it took to go through it, the money a boat had to pay, the advantages of being on a British boat and so on.

Here also it was where Jones told of Smith’s affairs while the latter was with the ladies, where Smith in turn was telling what Jones had been doing in India when the last-named gentleman had to obey the call of his better half and absent himself from the round table. It was not long, therefore, before everyone knew all about everybody else; or, at least, thought they did.

For Morton and some of the older men there was the evening gathering in the Captain’s roomy cabin, the exchange of tales and adventures with the jolly-faced seaman and the recital of some traveler’s tale of older days by some visitor.

From the Captain, Morton obtained his information about Count Rondell, who had once been the Captain’s superior officer some years back, when the latter had been in the service of Roumelia as a nautical instructor.

He heard from Sir Balingbroke how, during the memorable days of the Congress of Berlin, Count Rondell, then at the head of the diplomatic corps of his little country, fought hard and unremittingly for admission to the inner chambers of the historic conference, and how, in spite of the weighty opposition of Giers and the fact that he could not get official admission as a delegate, he had so won the esteem of all the statesmen there present that he had secured full independence, autonomy and great economic advantages for his country, and, then and there, had laid the foundation of the kingdom of Roumelia.

From this austere and cautious member of the British cabinet he also learned of the Count’s romantic quest in eastern lands for the young prince who had disappeared from home, and how necessary this only heir to the throne was for the continuance of existing conditions in the little kingdom. But Sir Balingbroke could not say whether the Count’s search had been crowned with success or not.

Captain Pollard pictured the Count as a man of unbending character, thoroughly upright and just. A man who ruled at court with iron hand but who had remained unsullied by its machinations—an aristocrat in office, a student and loving husband in his home. Sir Balingbroke nodded his head emphatically by way of confirmation of the Captain’s statements.

Morton spent considerable time in his own cabin, tabulating his collected material with the help of his assistant. During his absence from the ship’s circle he was largely discussed. The ladies especially were eager for information.

All the skipper knew, it seemed, was that Mr. Morton was the only son of Daniel B. Morton, the Arizona Copper King, one of the wealthiest and most influential of the many powerful men which America’s mineral wealth had created during the last decades. Young Morton was said to be a chip of the old block, well educated, manly and straight. After his college days at home, he had pursued special post-graduate studies at Oxford and Bonn, and had prepared himself to take up his father’s work. The Captain couldn’t explain why the young man had gone seemingly on a new tack. Rich as Croesus and living in a tent with no one but a man servant for over a year! Sir Balingbroke was puzzled.

Count Rondell was the least regular attendant at the Captain’s board. The latter explained that the Count’s health was not good. Dr. Brown had so reported to him.

Thus the days of heat and monotony stretched their weary lengths. They passed the harbor of Dshidda with its many picturesque boats, from little catamarans to large clumsy steamers. On the southern horizon disappeared also the rocks of Yanbu Bar, Sudan, Suakim and Loheia. On the fifth day after Morton had boarded the liner, when the sea once more showed the fiery red of sunset, they reached the head of the Gulf of Suez and the ship slid carefully into the basin which marks the southern terminal of the great Canal.

From Suez town the lights shot their sporadic blinking; the great tangle of boats of all descriptions and sizes tied up in the basin and adjoining docks began to show their mast lights and port lamps; the lighthouse on the narrow tongue of land stretching into the shadowy bay sent out its rhythmic signal flashes.

Morton, sitting opposite Count Rondell, gratefully leaned back in his flattened steamer chair and remarked: “What a relief to be so far north and at last on the eve of leaving this insufferable quarter of the world! I am glad to see a town once more, glad to see lights and real streets and hear real human noises even if they are as hideous as these are. It is good to look up to the heavens of our own familiar constellations and find our polar star promising the arrival home. See, Count, there, for the first time, can be distinguished all the stars of the Big Dipper! The Southern Cross is glorious, and I have admired it during many soundless nights in the desert; but give me our own starry sky, our own air, my own people!”Count Rondell looked up with a smile. “To tell you the truth, my dear sir, I have traveled along latitudes I never expected to see and I barely noticed the Southern Cross. I certainly must be getting old and unobservant. But I can appreciate how you feel when you think of the loved ones who are waiting for you in your distant country, and to know that your coming home means so much happiness to them. I also am glad to see again the stars of the north—my stars—though I am returning with a heavy heart.

“I cannot help thinking,” added the Count, “of the part this waterway has played in the history of the world’s civilization. I see it as the highway of the trend westward of our humanity’s progress. You will recall, Mr. Morton, that in the dawn of civilization the traders of Egypt brought their spices and gold and ivory from India. They resigned their profitable trading to the shrewder Phoenician sailors who were followed by those of Syracuse and Carthage. Then came in the Middle Ages the merchant princes of the Venetian, Pisan and Genoese republics.

“It was a marine from this lost city who, with the aid of Spanish gold, discovered your own country when the trade of the then known world had already drifted into the hands of the enterprising people of the Hisparian peninsula. We know what the aggrieved Portuguese and the stolid Dutch contributed to this westward march; but then had to yield, in their lives, to the superior gifts and stronger physique of the English race.

“Always it has been the cry of the ‘Westward Ho!’ And it always will be so. It would seem as if man could not resist following the path of the sun. Your people, Mr. Morton, your country will now step into the heritage of the world’s commerce. I am sure of it. It is the will of destiny.”Morton looked at the speaker with a feeling of awe. The thought so clearly developed was entirely new to him, and he had no answer to make.

A bond of mutual sympathy had grown up between the two men, so divergent in their aims and ambitions, so far apart in their ages. The younger admired the poise, the gentle courtesy and faultless manner of the elder. He admired his freedom from prejudice, his absolute toleration of the failings and frailties of others, and his prompt, unqualified condemnation of everything wrong, cowardly and selfish.

The older man on his part had become strangely attached to this virile, modest young man with his quiet calm ways, his broad and sound judgment of men and things and his democratic heartiness, which Morton possessed with all his seeming indifference towards others. An affection truly paternal had been awakened in him for this American who could not fail to represent to him a national type. He had met but few of his kind and had to confess to himself that in the past he had wronged them by his opinion. An American had meant to him an overaggressive boor; but in this young Morton he found as fine a gentleman as even he could wish for, a man also without the flaws of artificial mannerisms.

He could not help comparing him to the youthful prince who, by failing to suppress a morbid tendency to resist authority and restraint, had brought such fatal consequences upon himself and his country. “Why couldn’t this clean-cut young man have been of the line of the King’s dynasty?” he asked himself despairingly.

The subject discussed by the two had been of a broad character and general interest. Just before the interruption caused by the sight of land, they had been talking about the great similarity in the desires and aims of all people. Morton, who had intimated that his isolation in the desert had been somewhat of an intentional retirement to study himself and his own duty toward his country, had expressed himself in ways highly interesting to his companion. Returning to the subject, Morton said:

“It is remarkable that the seeming great differences between races and tribes are but outward and rather in their customs and habits than in their mental processes. I believe that the established use of the dromedary as a beast of burden, the necessity of living in tents owing to the absence of water courses and springs, the diet of fruits and sweetmeats, are really the things that remove the Arabs of Africa from the Europeans far more than their actual thoughts, their ambitions and emotions. These outward signs are what, next to language, strike us first as distinguishing marks. Once we get over these, to me at least, minor characteristics, it is surprising how easy it would be to trace the course of their thoughts, their actions, as running on lines almost similar to those that actuate the Frenchman or Italian or even the man from more northern countries. I have found love of truth, manliness and honesty, pride of descent, loyalty to kindred, affection for one’s own offspring, appreciation of learning, strong traits with these primitive men; while gluttony, drunkenness or license in almost any form is entirely absent from the nature of these children of the desert.”

Count Rondell had listened with close attention to Morton’s remarks. “There is no doubt,” he said, “much truth in your observation, my friend. To me it has ever been a matter for wonder how short the step is from the highest to the lowest. I am a member of a proud aristocracy and have been called the ‘Kingmaker,’ and yet I confess that beneath the outer skin of manners and polished bearing there is often but common clay—indeed, the common man frequently gains by being compared to his more exalted brother. I remember,” he continued, thoughtfully, “our party was very much entertained in Paris by the fine play of a small band of Gypsies then performing at our favorite restaurant. One evening, while giving the customary douceur to the leader, I asked him for his address as it was my intention to engage his orchestra for some small affair. The man could not write, and he asked me to put his address into my memorandum book. He owned but a single name. His pockmarked face, his little beetle eyes and low forehead gave but scant promise of intelligence. I asked him some questions about his life and ambitions—the man grew quite loquacious. He liked France and the French. He made a nice living, he had saved quite some money, had a good and thrifty wife, a cozy apartment and many comforts. The one thing which marred his happiness was the sad fact that his marriage had proved childless. The ‘bon Dieu’ had not blessed them. But for that he would not change with the manager of the hotel or any other man in Paris! I was deeply impressed because my own king had said the same words to me. But still, my dear Mr. Morton, blood will tell. And a nobleman is the product of many generations of thought, virtue and manliness.”

Morton nodded thoughtfully as he lighted a cigar. Both remained silent. From the shore came the sounds of murmuring crowds, the splashing of oars, the shrill tones of muleteers and the hoarse laughter of negroes. Then followed the clanking of chains, the straining of ropes, a few short commands from the bridge and the anchors had dropped.

Everyone was delighted to have reached another milestone in the long journey home. Passengers were discussing as to whether they should continue in the “Hindoostan” or take the night train to Ishmaila or Alexandria. Perhaps there might be some excitement in Suez, or at Port Said? Congestion of traffic in those days delayed the passage through the Canal and even the P. & O. liner might lose two days.

Stewards passed back and forth, in and out of saloons, and announced, in loud voices and in intonations ranging from Cockney to the resonant drawl of Aberdeen, “Mail distributed in Purser’s office at 6.30.” One, more respectful than the rest, approached the Count, “Your Excellency, the chief has cables for you; shall I bring them to you?” The Count rose and with a courteous leave went to the purser’s cabin.

Morton, to whom the sights were not novel, leaned over the starboard side, looking toward the quiet dark waters of the bay. He thought over the past few days of his life on shipboard, the acquaintances he had made, and the new experiences that had come to him. How strange these all were! What would they mean to him in after years? Then thoughts of home surged over him, and a great longing seized him to be there again. If he took the express boat from Alexandria he would be in Brindisi in time to take the train for Paris—and then London, and then the Cunarder for home—New York by the twentieth—and a whole month before Christmas! Christmas—and the snow! He’d cable and advise his folks. No, perhaps he’d better wait for his mail. His eyes wandered back to the deck below and saw his man leaning against the bulwark. He gave a low whistle and addressed the upturned face: “Don, I am going down to get the mail. Shall I bring you yours?”

“Allright, Mr. John, thank you. There won’t be much to carry when you get it, I guess. Haven’t many correspondents these days.”“I’ll see you in the smoker, Don.”

The mail he received was more voluminous than he had expected. There were several letters, some with dates months back, and a cable.

He retired into a quiet corner of the smoking room. Don was there and handing him one lean looking letter, he excused himself and broke the seal of the cable. It was but one day old. “Glad know you out of desert well and homeward bound. Mother sister well. Send love. Am not very well myself. Better hurry home, boy.”

Mechanically he looked for the signature which was lacking. It seemed less personal without his father’s name, and he was puzzled that his father had not used the code.

The letters contained nothing but good tidings. There was no reference to his father’s health except in the one from his mother bearing the latest date. She wrote: “Father seems quieter than usual and somewhat restless. Nothing wrong but the doctor advises putting off his usual trip to the Rockies for the present and would like to see him go South before the cold weather sets in. We expect to leave Bar Harbor earlier than usual and go to Cleveland before the middle of October as father would be more happy if we joined him there. If you, my dear boy, could get home in time, we might spend Christmas in California together and for once escape the cold of the lakes.”

Morton grew pensive; he had never before given a thought to his father’s health. His father had always seemed to him as young as ever and a more rugged and sturdy man, a man of better habits could not be found. He hoped the plaintive word meant nothing—nothing but the longing of the old man for his son. Still—he guessed it was time for him to step in and ease the governor’s burden. After all—what better work could he do?

He lay back, smoking and dreaming, somewhat in revival of his solitary habits of the past months, and abandoned himself once more to the charm of being alone—alone with his thoughts and removed from undesired companionship.

After an hour or so he rose and went to his cabin, where he threw himself on his couch. Unable to rest, he busied himself with a survey of his few belongings that might need packing. Then nervously drawing up a table he began working on his report. But he could not collect his thoughts. Evidently he was not in the humor. He was about to put his things away preparatory to trying once more the darkened deck, when the door opened and a steward entered with a note.

In the envelope he found a card bearing the inscription:

“Count Arnim Barton-Rondell.”

and on the reverse side in a precise clear handwriting, “May I request you to call at my cabin at your convenience?—Rondell.”

Morton hesitated but an instant. “Tell his Excellency I shall be with him right away.”

Anything was better than this moping, and the Count was the very companion to brush away the cobwebs from his mind. He stuffed his papers into the nearest table drawer, gave a cursory examination to his appearance before the mirror, locked his cabin door and sauntered over to the Count’s quarters.

Why had Count Rondell sent for him? He wondered.