“Mizraim is in my power—he acts for me,” said Dicky. “Whose life is safe here save my own?”
“Malaish! It shall be as your will is, Excellency,” answered Selamlik Pasha, in a shaking voice; and he had time to wonder even then how an Englishman could so outwit an Oriental. It was no matter how Mustapha Bey, his son, was lured; he had been seized in the harem, and all truth can be forsworn in Egypt, and the game was with this Donovan Pasha.
“Send to your palace, commanding that the Englishman be brought here,” said Dicky. Selamlik Pasha did so.
Sowerby of the Mounted Infantry was freed that night, and the next day Dicky Donovan had six Circassian slaves upon his hands. He passed them over to the wife of Fielding Bey with whom he had shared past secrets and past dangers.
Selamlik Pasha held his peace in fear; and the Khedive and Cairo never knew why there was a truce to battle between Dicky Donovan and that vile Pasha called Trousers.
AT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUS
In a certain year when Dicky Donovan was the one being in Egypt who had any restraining influence on the Khedive, he suddenly asked leave of absence to visit England. Ismail granted it with reluctance, chiefly because he disliked any interference with his comforts, and Dicky was one of them—in some respects the most important.
“My friend,” he said half petulantly to Dicky, as he tossed the plans for a new palace to his secretary and dismissed him, “are you not happy here? Have you not all a prince can give?”
“Highness,” answered Dicky, “I have kith and kin in England. Shall a man forget his native land?” The Khedive yawned, lighted a cigarette, and murmured through the smoke: “Inshallah! It might be pleasant—betimes.”