YÛsuf Pasha was upon the point of going out when his son was shown into his presence in his private room. He smiled upon the stripling’s prayer to be allowed to fight, but said:

“No, no, my son. Thou art too young as yet. Wait till the war is ended and then join the fray.”

With that he patted the boy’s cheek, bestowed his blessing on him, and went out, little guessing that he left despair behind him. A carriage waited for him at the door. An armed slave scrambled up beside the driver. It was the hour of sunset. Two months since the ways would have been merry at that hour. But now the passengers were few and fully armed; they looked suspicious and, where groups were formed, the talk seemed guarded. A curse had fallen on the happy city. The sunset blushed on her high roofs, the crescent flashed on all her spires and domes, and in the gullies which were streets lay depths of shade; yet no one felt the rapture of the evening.

YÛsuf, lolling in the carriage, gnawed his black moustache and cursed the revolutionaries from his heart. He had attained the wisdom which comes easily to middle age, hated disturbance and distrusted novelty. The nervous passion which had marked his youth still dwelt in him; but he reserved its transports for the calls of private life; having another wife besides the Englishwoman, and two concubines, whom he kept in the provincial centre whither public business often called him. Politics had been for him a well-ruled game, on which a man would be a fool to waste vitality. As a functionary, he had lounged on sofas, telling beads, dictating orders to his secretaries, at ease except when called before superiors; until this military rising scared his soul. Its swiftness and success seemed downright fiendish.

One day a painstaking, obedient native officer had been selected by the Khedive IsmaÎl to organize a riot hostile to the Frank commissioners. He seemed so trusty and discreet that IsmaÎl forbore to execute him for the trifling service. Within two years he was the idol of the native soldiers, the spokesman of their grievances against the foreign Turks; in five, he was the incubus and dread of Egypt, first Minister of War and now Dictator. That first employment recommended him to schemers as one who did not fear to lead rebellion. Straightforward and excitable, extremely zealous in whatever charge he undertook, he was thrust forward by the clever ones to posts of hazard. His prompters, Asiatics, saw the bounds of his intelligence and thought to keep him in their hands, a priceless instrument. But they had not allowed for the inflation of the African, who, being once exalted, swelled and swelled until his greatness overawed its very founders.

An honest man and a good Muslim, Ahmad ArÂbi lacked the cleverness of the conspirator; nor was he one. The sordid plots which guided his career were spun behind him; while he pressed onward with clear brow and conquering smile—a doomed man, in the view of calm spectators.

YÛsuf had known ArÂbi for some years and liked him personally; but the Khedive Muhammad Tewfik was his friend from childhood. Entreated by the agitators to take office with them, he had referred the question to the good Khedive, who begged him to accept the post thus offered, that he (Muhammad Tewfik Pasha, Lord of Egypt) might have one friend among his so-called servants. Tied by his duties, he had not fled to Alexandria with the Sovereign; but remained behind in an absurd position, a member of the rebel government which he abhorred. He was now upon his way to meet some other Turks thus stranded, to decide on some safe line of future conduct.

The rendezvous was at his father’s house, where, in the great reception-room, he found a score of men assembled. All had the faces of conspirators except his father, a very old man now, who bade them welcome as to some court function.

“Where is my son Hamdi?” asked the patriarch upon the dais, peering round upon the red-capped and black-coated throng.

“He is not with us. He has joined the fellÂhÎn. He dared not tell thee,” answered YÛsuf sadly.

“Well, well,” remarked Muhammad Pasha, with benignity. “Boys will be foolish! In Allah’s name I bid you welcome, O my friends. It is well known that I myself despise these upstarts and have told their leader my opinion to his face. Less old, I should have spent my life and fortune for the young Khedive, whose ancestor, the great Muhammad Ali, raised my house to honour; as it is, I pray to God to grant him victory. But his dependence on the English likes me not; and God forbid that I should influence your counsels. You have, each one, his life and fortune to protect, his duty to decide towards El IslÂm.”

He stopped, and an uneasy silence reigned for quite a minute. It was broken by a man exclaiming, “They have set up a tribunal in each town with power to ruin or to kill a man on mere suspicion. Hear the wording of a document which I received this day.”

With that, he took a paper from his breast and read aloud its contents—a call in truculent, inflated language upon the patriot MahmÛd the son of HÂfiz to show his fervour by a contribution to the war fund; failing which, he would be prosecuted as a foe to Egypt—“for the public safety.”

“Aha!” laughed the old Pasha in his thin, cracked voice. “A French model, by my beard! For men who would eschew all foreign influence! That is the hand of Tulbah, not ArÂbi. The mountebanks! The silly children—apish imitators!”

“By your Excellency’s leave the matter is extremely serious—for me at least,” groaned out the owner of the notice.

“Thou wilt make the contribution?” inquired YÛsuf.

“Better flee,” remarked another.

And then they all began to talk together in low whispers with frightened glances round the room, for spies were everywhere. Flight was now hopeless, every one agreed; nothing remained but to feign ardour in ArÂbi’s cause, give up communication with the loyalists at Alexandria, and pray for the usurper’s overthrow.

“They cannot last, I tell you,” chuckled the old Pasha. “These fellÂhÎn are quite unfit for government. The young Khedive has been too kind. He has not whipped them. My son and I were present when his father warned him to execute these men, his creatures, who had tasted power. A sad mistake, by Allah! For, Allah knows, we do not want the English in this land. My life-work, that of all the old diplomatists, has been to stave off European interference, by compliments, by guile, by small concessions. O Allah, let me die before the evil day! The Lord preserve us from the domination of the infidels!”

The old man dropped his hands and hung his head.

“Better the English than this present anarchy,” another murmured. “Already the whole land is overrun by gangs of brigands. The streets here in the capital grow dangerous. There is no order kept except among the soldiers. All trade, all enterprise is at a standstill, and every public undertaking goes to ruin. Already all the people hate ArÂbi.”

“The Lord deliver us,” said YÛsuf, “from him and from the English both. A dreadful quandary!”

When he went forth to his carriage, still in waiting, he told his slave to have his pistols ready, and himself examined the revolver which he carried. He wrapped a shawl about his face to pass unrecognized and, thus protected and disguised, drove through the darkling streets, where every wayfarer betrayed the like anxiety. Only the street-dogs went about their work as usual, prowling along the walls in search of offal.

At his own door a man accosted him. It was one of his paid spies. He led the way across the hall into his private room.

“What news?” he questioned.

“May Allah turn it to thy good!” the spy replied, with his profoundest reverence. “I have it from a member of the new Committee that your Highness is marked down as a suspected notable. They say it may mean destitution, even death.”

“I thank thee,” murmured YÛsuf and dismissed the man. Directly he was gone he called GhandÛr and said:

“Didst thou not tell me, O beloved, that thou hadst some relative a member of the new Committee for the Public Safety?”

“Yes, O my lord! The person is my father’s brother, a small merchant.”

“Where is their place of meeting?”

“I can show it thee.”

“Do they meet every day?”

“I think so, but will ascertain.”

“Good. I shall wait upon them in the morning. At daybreak take ten pounds out of the treasury and carry it to thy relation to bespeak his favour.”

“Has aught untoward happened?”

“Untoward? Listen!” YÛsuf told the story.

“Merciful Allah! How can such things be?” exclaimed GhandÛr. “We are the greatest in the land, they—filthy upstarts. How much does my good lord propose to give?”

“A thousand pounds were not too much to save my life.”

“Deign but to hear my counsel! Give a hundred and ask leave for thy son to join the army. He is prostrated by thy late refusal. His going will prove more than any gift of money that thy heart is with the cause—which, Allah knows, may be the right one, since our lord has chosen to put trust in infidels. His mother even wishes it, to heal his chagrin. She sent for me and asked me to entreat your Excellency. We have good friends within the army who will see that he is kept from fighting. My son shall go along with him, to be his servant.”

GhandÛr, the simple creature, was in tears.

“By Allah, I will think about it,” murmured YÛsuf.

Five minutes later he repaired to his son’s room, revived the lad, and passing thence to the haramlik, told Barakah that her request was granted. She was half stunned, for she had counted on his obduracy.

Not noticing her dazed condition, for his mind ran still on puzzles of diplomacy, he added:

“Thou, who art English, O my sweet one, inform me of that nation! Are they harsh as conquerors? What is their custom with regard to vengeance? Do they burn and ravish, or merely punish those who have borne arms against them? It is important I should know beforehand if they win the day.”

Barakah stared at him vaguely for a moment; then bursting into tears, exclaimed:

“Cut short thy life! O most unfeeling father! O appalling prospect! I would sooner die a thousand deaths than see them conquer.”

“Merciful Allah, are they so fanatical?” gasped YÛsuf, with a face of great dismay. “I meant not to alarm thee, O beloved. I was thinking only of myself, how to behave in case things happened so, which God forbid!”

But Barakah thought only of their son.