But it was undoubtedly the genuine Usk who came on board at Brindisi with his parents and sister, and showed himself as delighted to meet a fellow-Man (in the Cambridge sense) as Mr Judson was to see him. Thus reassured, the curate was quite satisfied to fall in with the arrangement so unceremoniously made for him. The Chevalier treated his guests with princely hospitality, and the voyage was pleasant and uneventful. The only cloud on the horizon appeared at Larnaka, where the Chevalier found waiting for him at his agent’s some news that perturbed him considerably. He discussed it at length with his secretary and two or three of the chief Jews of the place, then sent off several long telegrams to Damascus, and returned to his guests with his usual cheerfulness restored.
“I hef put it all in your broder’s hends, my lord,” he said gleefully to Lord Caerleon, who expressed a hope that he had not received bad news. “I hef thrown it upon his shoulders, and I feel safe. He will not fail me.”
The Chevalier’s telegrams were opened by Paschics, who rode into Damascus daily in order to keep the office-work from falling into arrears, and now returned immediately to Brutli with a peremptory demand for Count Mortimer’s presence in the city, since a fresh crisis had arisen with which he alone could deal. Cyril’s disinclination for work was as marked as it had been when his illness began, but he allowed himself to be dragged from his pleasant lotos-eating existence by the ruthless Paschics, and swept with his whole train down to Damascus. The imperious summons was all the more distasteful, since Ernestine was intending to leave Brutli for the city the next day. The house, which had been placed at her disposal by a wealthy German merchant who had married a former deaconess, would not be ready to receive her until the time originally fixed, so that she would be deprived of Cyril’s escort on the journey. Paschics saw, or thought he saw, that he had incurred his leader’s deep displeasure by his persistence in demanding his return, and as soon as the cavalcade was out of sight of the Institution, he pressed forward to Cyril’s side.
“Indeed, Excellency, it is absolutely necessary. There is——”
“Oh, don’t din the whole thing into me just now, Paschics. When we get to Damascus will be time enough. I can’t think when I am riding.”
Paschics fell back to his former station, trying to remember whether he had ever heard his employer object hitherto to thinking in any circumstances. He himself was thoroughly alarmed by the crisis, and he half feared that Cyril failed to realise its seriousness. As soon as they reached the house he hurried him into the room where they had been accustomed to work; and while Mr Hicks sat down to examine a series of urgent telegrams which had arrived for him, and Mansfield uncovered the typewriter in readiness to begin operations, he summarised as tersely as possible the state of affairs described by the Chevalier’s correspondents.
Ten days before, the readers of all the more important papers throughout Europe had found themselves confronted by an advertisement bidding them to “Look out for the Yellow Pamphlet!” The advertisement appeared each succeeding day in a different position and in different type, and a week after its first insertion the Yellow Pamphlet burst upon the world. The newsvendors were laden with it, the bookstalls groaned under it, and it was sent gratuitously to vast numbers of prominent people everywhere, especially among the Jews. Printed in English, French, German, and Jargon, it made its appearance simultaneously all over Europe, Egypt, and Algeria; and it was a significant fact that the Anti-Semitic papers, together with a good many journals which were not supposed to share their views, devoted a large portion of their issue on the day of its publication to quoting from its contents and drawing inferences from them. Enormous as the cost of production must have been, the brochure had sold, said the telegrams, in such numbers that it was probable it would bring an appreciable profit to its proprietor. Its title was “The Syndicate and its Hero,” and it was addressed to all honest men. With an affectation of judicial impartiality which rendered its statements all the more damaging, it set out to prove that the United Nation Syndicate, despite its professedly philanthropic object, was in reality nothing less than a scheme for rendering the Jews absolutely masters of the world. The steps by which, under Cyril’s leadership, the Syndicate had coerced one government after another, until it had borne down all opposition to its Palestine scheme, were traced with as much minuteness as was requisite to vouch for the writer’s knowledge of his subject. Then came the application. Practice had made perfect, and there was no room for doubt that the machinery, tested by means of these various trial trips, as they might be called, would quickly be used for larger ends. The world lay helpless at the feet of the Jew, but—it was for the Jew to consider whether this triumph was not likely to be too dearly bought.
Having exposed the real nature of the aims of the Syndicate, the pamphlet proceeded to deal with its hero—Cyril. Between Count Mortimer and the Jews there existed an unholy alliance, by virtue of which he was to be raised to a position commensurate with his ambitious designs, in return for his betrayal of Christendom. His first attempt to make himself Prince of Palestine had been balked by the address of the lady to whom he had confided his schemes, and the sturdy honesty of Dr Texelius; but he had found a more adaptable tool. Another lady, whose former history was not unconnected with his own, and who, on his fall, had quitted society in a fit of pique at her loss of political power, was willing to return to it in any capacity that might offer her a scope for a fancied talent of intrigue. Thus worthily supported, Count Mortimer had proceeded, in the most barefaced manner, to force himself upon the world as the only possible ruler of Palestine, as a conjurer forces a particular card upon his audience. He had openly assumed the title of Prince of the Jews, and in that name had traversed Palestine and the surrounding countries from end to end, making treaties on his own authority, and organising a plébiscite which was designed to give his usurpation the semblance of legality. This desirable end effected, he would continue to play into the hands of the Syndicate, with the added prestige of place and power to assist him, while they would maintain and strengthen his position by virtue of their command of the world’s finance. The position would be a proud one for him, no doubt; but was it worth while for the Jews to drive Europe to desperation, and bring upon themselves universal hatred, which was only too likely to lead to universal reprisals, merely in order to provide a throne for Count Mortimer?
Thus far the Yellow Pamphlet. The telegrams added that on the afternoon of the day of publication representatives of the press had interviewed a number of the prominent personages in various countries to whom it had been sent. On the subject of the revelations contained in it, the utmost horror and detestation was expressed by one and all of those appealed to. Everywhere the timid, cowering before the prospect of popular fury, sought to save themselves by sacrificing some one else, and the bold rejoiced cynically in the chance of ridding themselves of a severe master. The scapegoat was the same in both cases. All the Hebrews who conceived themselves to have any grudge against Cyril—Texelius, the theoretical republican Rubenssohn, the English Jews, the schemers he had disappointed at Jerusalem and Alexandria—displayed the most engaging ignorance of any political designs on the part of their nation. It had never entered their minds that the Syndicate could have any but a purely philanthropic object; but if they had been misled, let it be summarily crushed as soon as its work in acquiring Palestine was done. In any case it was clear that Count Mortimer must be thrown overboard. He had traded upon the guileless simplicity of the Hebrew community in order to secure his own advancement, and corrupted the innocence of its keenest minds. There would be justice as well as policy in flinging him to the wolves that were clamouring for Jewish blood.
This prompt repudiation of Cyril and all his ways had proved so convincing to the general public that the mob which had set out to wreck the Jewish houses remained to acclaim their owners, and Semite and Anti-Semite were exchanging pledges of eternal friendship all over Europe. Before the joint influence of fear and interest, the United Nation collapsed like a house of cards. The kings of finance, who had no sentimental care for Palestine—Paris, rather than Jerusalem, flaunting herself as the Holy City of their gilded dreams—had at first yielded unwillingly to the Chevalier’s enthusiasm, backed up by the monetary pressure he had contrived to exert, and now welcomed the opportunity of throwing off the yoke. The orthodox Rabbis, who, with a few exceptions, had used all their influence in opposition to the Zionist movement, and had viewed its progress with fear and aversion, as likely to transfer their power to the hands of the free-thinking Jews and such enthusiasts as Rabbi Schaul, gloried openly in the exposé. The rank and file of the Children of Zion alone remained faithful. Thus the Jewish world was split in two, and the unanimity demanded by the Emperor of Pannonia was absolutely unattainable.