A flood of resentment swept into the heart of the listener. Years may sear a wound; but if it is deep, the scar remains.
“What do you ask of me?” he answered.
Before replying, Kāra reflected for some time, his eyes steadily fixed upon the floor.
“Are there no women in Lord Roane’s family?” he asked, finally.
“There are two, I believe—his son’s wife, who is an invalid, and his granddaughter.”
“Ah!” The long-drawn exclamation was one of triumphant satisfaction. Again the Egyptian relapsed into thought, and the minister was growing impatient when his strange visitor at last spoke.
“Sir,” said he, “you ask me what you can do to assist me. I will tell you. Obtain for Lord Roane a diplomatic post in Cairo, under Lord Cromer. Obtain some honorable place for his son as well. That will take the entire family to Egypt—my own country.”
“Well?”
“In London there is no vendetta. Crimes that the law cannot reach are allowed to go unpunished. In Egypt we are Nature’s children. No false civilization glosses our wrongs or denies our right to protect our honor. I implore you, my lord, as you respect the memory of poor Hatatcha, to send Lord Roane and his family to Egypt.”
“I will,” said the minister, with stern brow.