His friend followed the nod of Dicky's head, and saw, passing slowly through a street below, a funeral procession. Near a hundred blind men preceded the bier, chanting the death-phrases. The bier was covered by a faded Persian shawl, and it was carried by the poorest of the fellaheen, though in the crowd following were many richly attired merchants of the bazaars. On a cart laden with bread and rice two fellaheen stood and handed, or tossed out, food to the crowd—token of a death in high places. Vast numbers of people rambled behind chanting, and a few women, near the bier, tore their garments, put dust on their heads, and kept crying: "Salem ala ahali!—Remember us to our friends!"
Walking immediately behind the bier was one conspicuous figure, and there was a space around him which none invaded. He was dressed in white, like an Arabian Mahommedan, and he wore the green turban of one who has been the pilgrimage to Mecca.
At sight of him Dicky straightened himself with a little jerk, and his tongue clicked with satisfaction. "Isn't he, though—isn't he?" he said, after a moment. His lips, pressed together, curled in with a trick they had when he was thinking hard, planning things.
The other forbore to question. The notable figure had instantly arrested his attention, and held it until it passed from view.
"Isn't he, though, Yankee?" Dicky repeated, and pressed a knuckle into the other's waistcoat.
"Isn't he what?"
"Isn't he bully—in your own language?"
"In figure; but I couldn't see his face distinctly."
"You'll see that presently. You could cut a whole Egyptian Ministry out of that face, and have enough left for an American president or the head of the Salvation Army. In all the years I've spent here I've never seen one that could compare with him in nature, character, and force. A few like him in Egypt, and there'd be no need for the money-barbers of Europe."
"He seems an ooster here—you know him?"