The Khedive started from his chair, and his sullen eye lighted to laughter. He paced excitedly to and fro for a minute, and then broke out:
“Thou hast said it! Gordon—Gordon—if he would but come again!—But it shall be so, by the beard of God’s prophet, it shall. Thou hast said the thing that has lain in my heart. Have I had honour in the Soudan since his feet were withdrawn? Where is honour and tribute and gold since his hand ruled—alone without an army? It is so—Inshallah! but it is so. He shall come again, and the people’s eyes will turn to Khartoum and Darfdr and Kordofan, and the greedy nations will wait. Ah, my friend, but the true inspiration is thine! I will send for Gordon to night—even to-night. Thou shalt go—no, no, not so. Who can tell—I might look for thy return in vain! But who—who, to carry my word to Gordon?”
“Your messenger is in the anteroom,” said Dicky with a sudden thought.
“Who is it, son of the high hills?”
“The lady at Assiout—she who is such a friend to Gordon as I am to thee, Highness.”
“She whose voice and hand are against slavery?”
“Even so. It is good that she return to England there to remain. Send her.”
“Why is she here?” The Khedive looked suspiciously at Dicky, for it seemed that a plot had been laid.
Thereupon, Dicky told the Khedive the whole story, and not in years had Ismail’s face shown such abandon of humour.
“By the will of God, but it shall be!” he said. “She shall marry Kingsley Bey, and he shall go free.”