It was only after they were under way that the adventures of the two little travelers were told. Stasch, who used to be so fond of boasting, did not sound his own praises at all now, for he had accomplished so many things and gone through so much that he had developed sufficiently to recognize that facts speak louder than words—that deeds alone, even when told as modestly as possible, speak for themselves. Daily, during the hot “white hours,” and evenings in the bivouac, the events and adventures which the children had suffered passed before the eyes of the captain and the doctor like moving pictures. In this way they saw them carried off from Medinet-el-Fayoum, and the terrible journey on camels through the desert—Khartum and Omdurman, which was a hell on earth—and the designing Mahdi. When Stasch told how he had replied to the Mahdi when the latter wanted him to change his religion, the two friends arose and each of them in turn grasped Stasch’s right hand firmly. Then the captain said:
“The Mahdi is not living now!”
“The Mahdi not living now!” repeated Stasch, surprised.
“That’s true,” the doctor continued. “He was suffocated in his own fat, or, properly speaking, he died of fatty degeneration of the heart, and Abdullah[[49]] has taken command.”
A long pause ensued.
“Ha!” said Stasch. “When he sent us to meet our death in Fashoda he had no idea that death would overtake him first.”
And after a while he added:
“But Abdullah is even more cruel than the Mahdi.”
“And that has led to the present revolts and slaughter,” answered the captain, “and the whole structure of government which the Mahdi erected is bound to fall sooner or later.”