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.”