“Not so, Highness.”
The Khedive’s fingers twisted round the chair-arm savagely.
“Who will prevent it?”
“Your Highness will. Your Highness could not permit it—the time is far past. Suppose Kingsley Bey gave you his whole fortune, would it save one palace or pay one tithe of your responsibilities? Would it lengthen the chain of safety?”
“I am safe.”
“No, Highness. In peril—here with your own people, in Europe with the nations. Money will not save you.”
“What then?”
“Prestige. Power—the Soudan. Establish yourself in the Soudan with a real army. Let your name be carried to the Abyssinian mountains as the voice of the eagle.”
“Who will carry it?” He laughed disdainfully, with a bitter, hopeless kind of pride. “Who will carry it?”
“Gordon-again.”