In the Mahdi's Grasp - George Manville Fenn

Then turning to his companion with a faint, sad smile, he said softly—

“Our country was slow to move, but at last it has done its duty well. Mine was a bitter time of waiting, but it is as nothing now, for I have been here to see.”

He turned and looked up quickly, for there was a sharp fluttering sound as of wings.

“The British flag!” he said, with a look of pride lighting up his deeply bronzed face. “There, Frank, lad, our work is done, and the way is open. Now for rest—for the home I never hoped to see again.”

A low murmur of admiration ran along the ranks of the British soldiers, officers and men, as the brothers walked slowly back to where a group was standing, one of whom was a good-looking, sun-browned Hakim in snowy turban and flowing robes, attended by a swarthy man in a fez—a man in white garb with a very English face, and just behind him a venerable Sheikh. For all who were present now had learned the facts, and as the brothers passed, one of the officers of the Sirdar’s guard exclaimed—

“By George! and yet there are people who say we have no heroes now!”

The End.