But Gordon's impatience could restrain itself no longer. "Doctor," he said, clutching at the surgeon's sleeve, "close the door and tell me what has happened."
The surgeon repeated the reports which appeared in the English newspapers—about the clearing out of El Azhar, the shooting of the boy, the killing of a hundred students by the sword, and the imprisonment of nearly four hundred others. And then, thinking that the drug he had administered was still beclouding his patient's brain, he spoke of Gordon's own share in the bad work of the night before—how he had refused to obey instructions and been ordered under open arrest to return to his own quarters; how he had defied authority, and, making his way to the University, had perpetrated a violent personal attack on the officer commanding the troops there.
"I know nothing about it, you know, but what Colonel Macdonald has communicated to the press—contrary, I should think, to Army Regulations and all sense of honour and decency—but he says you have been guilty of a threefold offence; first, mutiny, next desertion, and finally gross assault on an officer while in the execution of his duty."
Gordon had hardly listened to this part of the surgeon's story, but his face betrayed a feverish eagerness when the surgeon said—
"There is something else, but I hardly know whether I ought to tell you."
"What is it?" asked Gordon, though he knew full well what the surgeon was about to say.
"It occurred last night, too, but the Consul-General has managed to keep it out of the morning newspapers. I feel I ought to tell you, though, and if I could be sure you would take it calmly——"
"Tell me."
"General Graves is dead. He was found dead on the floor of his office. His daughter found him."
Gordon covered his face and asked, in a voice which he tried in vain to render natural, "What do they say he died of?"