In the Mahdi's Grasp

by George Manville Fenn

“Answer this, Ibrahim: Do you believe this new Mahdi or Khalifa is the chosen one of the prophet?”

The Sheikh laughed softly.

“Thy servant thought much when he was young, and all his life he has had dealings with the wise men from the west who have come here from many countries to see and seek out what the old people left buried in the sands of time. He could not help, as he saw the wonders they brought to light, and sat in the same tent with them, growing wiser and thinking in their tongue. He has seen, too, again and again, fresh prophets rise to utter the same cry, ‘Lo, O people, I am the prophet’s chosen, sent to free the country from the heathen Christian dog.’ And it has always been the same: the people cry aloud and believe and follow him to the fight always to kill and destroy, to make slaves, and to pass like a flight of locusts across the land, and the new prophet eats and drinks and makes merry till he dies like the thousands he has killed; but he does not carry out his boast, and another arises and cries, ‘Lo, I am the chosen of the prophet. Upon me does the Mahdi’s mantle fall.’ Excellency, I am a man of the desert, but there is wisdom even amongst the sand, and I have picked up some, enough to know when false prophets come amongst the people. No; I do not believe the new Mahdi is the chosen one. He is only another man of blood. Why does my master ask? Why does he wish to run where there is danger to him and his friends—danger to us who would be his guides?”

“Listen,” said the professor, and in a few well-chosen words he told the old Sheikh of Harry Frere’s unhappy fate.

“Hah!” ejaculated the old Arab, after hearing the speaker to the end. “Yes; I have heard of this before. With mine own eyes I saw the German who escaped, and it was said that there was a young Englishman out yonder, a slave. And he is your brother, my lord?” he continued, turning quickly upon Frank.

“Yes; my brother, whom I have come here to save.”

“It is good,” said the Arab slowly. “But I hear that an army is going south to fight the Khalifa.”

“Yes,” said Frank bitterly; “but it will be months or years before they reach the place, and before then my brother may be dead. Sheikh,” said Frank, in a low, hoarse voice that bespoke the emotion from which he suffered “he is a slave, and in chains. I must go to his help at once.”

“The young Excellency’s words are good, and they make the eyes of his servant dark with sorrow; but it will not be freeing his brother from his chains if he goes as a young man would, to rashly throw away his life. It is so easy away out there. Here there is law, and if a man steals or raises his hand against his brother man, there is the wise judge waiting, and the judgment bar. But out yonder they make their own laws, and it is but a thrust with a spear, a stroke with a sharp sword, and the sand is ever athirst to drink up the blood, the jackals and the unclean birds to leave nothing but a few bones. Has the young Excellency thought of all this?”

“Yes,” said Frank hoarsely, “and I have seen in the darkness of the night when I could not sleep, my brother’s hands stretched out to me, and have felt that I could hear his voice calling to me to come and save him.”