“I have come to obtain your Highness's signature to this decree,” announced Lord Cromer, in the blunt and aggressive manner so characteristic of him.
“Suppose, my lord,” the Khedive asked quietly, “that I decline to make an appointment which is not for the good of Egypt—what then?”
“Then, your Highness,” said Cromer menacingly, “Ceylon.”
“But suppose, my lord,” Abbas Hilmi again inquired, his face pale with anger, “that I disregard your threat to exile me to Ceylon and still refuse to sign this commission?”
Lord Cromer strode across the room to a window which commanded a view of Abdin Square and threw back the curtain. “Will your Highness look out of this window before you give me a final answer?” he asked.
The Khedive stepped to the window and looked down. There, drawn up in motionless ranks which stretched from end to end of the great square, was a brigade of British infantry, the Egyptian sun blazing down on the rows of brown helmets, on the business-like uniforms of khaki, and on the slanting lines of steel. For five full minutes Abbas Hilmi stood in silence, looking down on that grim display of power. Then he turned slowly to Lord Cromer. “Give me the pen,” he said.
The real ruler of Egypt, His Excellency Field Marshal Lord Kitchener of Khartoum, British Agent and Consul-General in Egypt, inspecting a guard of honour upon his recent visit to the battle-field of Omdurman.