“But not till she has seen him and mourned over him in his cell, with the mud floor and the balass of water.”
The Khedive laughed outright and swore in French. “And the cakes of dourha! I will give her as a parting gift the twenty slaves, and she shall bring her great work to a close in the arms of a slaver. It is worth a fortune.”
“It is worth exactly ten thousand pounds to your Highness—ten thousand pounds neither more nor less.”
Ismail questioned.
“Kingsley Bey would make last tribute of thus much to your Highness.”
Ismail would not have declined ten thousand centimes. “Malaish!” he said, and called for coffee, while they planned what should be said to his Ambassadress from Assiout.
She came trembling, yet determined, and she left with her eyes full of joyful tears. She was to carry the news of his freedom and the freedom of his slaves to Kingsley Bey, and she—she, was to bear to Gordon, the foe of slavery, the world’s benefactor, the message that he was to come and save the Soudan. Her vision was enlarged, and never went from any prince a more grateful supplicant and envoy.
Donovan Pasha went with her to the room with the mud floor where Kingsley Bey was confined.
“I owe it all to you,” she said as they hastened across the sun-swept square. “Ah, but you have atoned! You have done it all at once, after these long years.”
“Well, well, the time is ripe,” said Dicky piously. They found Kingsley Bey reading the last issue of the French newspaper published in Cairo. He was laughing at some article in it abusive of the English, and seemed not very downcast; but at a warning sign and look from Dicky, he became as grave as he was inwardly delighted at seeing the lady of Assiout.