Donovan Pasha And Some People Of Egypt, Volume 4.

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DONOVAN PASHA AND SOME PEOPLE OF EGYPT

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 4.

A YOUNG LION OF DEDAN
HE WOULD NOT BE DENIED
THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

A YOUNG LION OF DEDAN

Looking from the minaret the Two could see, far off, the Pyramids of
Ghizeh and Sakkara, the wells of Helouan, the Mokattam Hills, the tombs
of the Caliphs, the Khedive's palace at distant Abbasiyeh. Nearer by,
the life of the city was spread out. Little green oases of palms emerged
from the noisy desert of white stone and plaster. The roofs of the
houses, turned into gardens and promenades, made of the huge superficial
city one broken irregular pavement. Minarets of mosques stood up like
giant lamp-posts along these vast, meandering streets. Shiftless
housewives lolled with unkempt hair on the housetops; women of the harem
looked out of the little mushrabieh panels in the clattering, narrow
bazaars.

Just at their feet was a mosque--one of the thousand nameless mosques of
Cairo. It was the season of Ramadan, and a Friday, the Sunday of the
Mahommedan--the Ghimah.

The "Two" were Donovan Pasha, then English Secretary to the Khedive,
generally known as "Little Dicky Donovan," and Captain Renshaw, of the
American Consulate. There was no man in Egypt of so much importance as
Donovan Pasha. It was an importance which could neither be bought nor
sold.

Presently Dicky touched the arm of his companion. "There it comes!" he
said.

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?"

"Do I!" Dicky paused and squinted up at the tall Southerner. "What do
you suppose I brought you out from your Consulate for to see--the view
from Ebn Mahmoud? And you call yourself a cute Yankee?"

"I'm no more a Yankee than you are, as I've told you before," answered
the American with a touch of impatience, yet smilingly. "I'm from South
Carolina, the first State that seceded."

"Anyhow, I'm going to call you Yankee, to keep you nicely disguised.
This is the land of disguises."

"Then we did not come out to see the view?" the other drawled. There
was a quickening of the eye, a drooping of the lid, which betrayed a
sudden interest, a sense of adventure.

Dicky laid his head back and laughed noiselessly. "My dear Renshaw,
with all Europe worrying Ismail, with France in the butler's pantry and
England at the front door, do the bowab and the sarraf go out to take air
on the housetops, and watch the sun set on the Pyramids and make a
rainbow of the desert? I am the bowab and the sarraf, the man-of-all-
work, the Jack-of-all-trades, the 'confidential' to the Oriental
spendthrift. Am I a dog to bay the moon--have I the soul of a tourist
from Liverpool or Poughkeepsie?"

The lanky Southerner gripped his arm. "There's a hunting song of the
South," he said, "and the last line is, 'The hound that never tires.'
You are that, Donovan Pasha--"

"I am 'little Dicky Donovan,' so they say," interrupted the other.

"You are the weight that steadies things in this shaky Egypt. You are
you, and you've brought me out here because there's work of some kind to
do, and because--"

"And because you're an American, and we speak the same language."

"And our Consulate is all right, if needed, whatever it is. You've
played a square game in Egypt. You're the only man in office who hasn't
got rich out of her, and--"

"I'm not in office."

"You're the power behind the throne, you're--"

"I'm helpless--worse than helpless, Yankee. I've spent years of my life
here. I've tried to be of some use, and play a good game for England;
and keep a conscience too, but it's been no real good. I've only staved
off the crash. I'm helpless, now. That's why I'm here."

He leaned forward, and looked out of the minaret and down towards the
great locked gates of the empty mosque.

Renshaw put his hand on Dicky's shoulder. "It's the man in white yonder
you're after?"

Dicky nodded. "It was no use as long as she lived. But she's dead--her
face was under that old Persian shawl--and I'm going to try it on."

"Try what on?"

"Last night I heard she was sick. I heard at noon to-day that she was
gone; and then I got you to come out and see the view!"

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Make him come back."

"From where?"

"From the native quarter and the bazaars. He was for years in Abdin
Palace."

"What do you want him for?"

"It's a little gamble for Egypt. There's no man in Egypt Ismail loves
and fears so much--"

"Except little Dicky Donovan!"

"That's all twaddle. There's no man Ismail fears so much, because
he's the idol of the cafes and the bazaars. He's the Egyptian in Egypt
to-day. You talk about me? Why, I'm the foreigner, the Turk, the
robber, the man that holds the lash over Egypt. I'd go like a wisp of
straw if there was an uprising."

"Will there be an uprising?" The Southerner's fingers moved as though
they were feeling a pistol.

"As sure as that pyramid stands. Everything depends on the kind of
uprising. I want one kind. There may be another."

"That's what you are here for?"

"Exactly."

"Who is he?"

"Wait."

"What is his story?"

"She was." He nodded towards the funeral procession.

"Who was she?"

"She was a slave." Then, after a pause, "She was a genius too. She saw
what was in him. She was waiting--but death couldn't wait, so . . .
Every thing depends. What she asked him to do, he'll do."

"But if she didn't ask?"

"That's it. She was sick only seventeen hours--sick unto death. If she
didn't ask, he may come my way."

Again Dicky leaned out of the minaret, and looked down towards the gates
of the mosque, where the old gatekeeper lounged half-asleep. The noise
of the-procession had died away almost, had then revived, and from beyond
the gates of the mosque could be heard the cry of the mourners: "Salem
ala ahali!"

There came a knocking, and the old porter rose up, shuffled to the great
gates, and opened. For a moment he barred the way, but when the bearers
pointed to the figure in white he stepped aside and salaamed low.

"He is stone-deaf, and hasn't heard, or he'd have let her in fast
enough," said Dicky.

"It's a new thing for a woman to be of importance in an Oriental
country," said Renshaw.

"Ah, that's it! That's where her power was. She, with him, could do
anything. He, with her, could have done anything. . . . Stand back
there, where you can't be seen--quick," added Dicky hurriedly. They both
drew into a corner.

"I'm afraid it was too late. He saw me," added Dicky.

"I'm afraid he did," said Renshaw.

"Never mind. It's all in the day's work. He and I are all right. The
only danger would lie in the crowd discovering us in this holy spot,
where the Muezzin calls to prayer, and giving us what for, before he
could interfere."

"I'm going down from this 'holy spot,'" said Renshaw, and suited the
action to the word.

"Me too, Yankee," said Dicky, and they came halfway down the tower. From
this point they watched the burial, still well above the heads of the
vast crowd, through which the sweetmeat and sherbet sellers ran, calling
their wares and jangling their brass cups.

"What is his name?" said Renshaw.

"Abdalla."

"Hers?"

"Noor-ala-Noor."

"What does that mean?"

"Light from the Light."

II

The burial was over. Hundreds had touched the coffin, taking a last
farewell. The blind men had made a circle round the grave, hiding the
last act of ritual from the multitude. The needful leaves, the graceful
pebbles, had been deposited, the myrtle blooms and flowers had been
thrown, and rice, dates, bread, meat, and silver pieces were scattered
among the people. Some poor men came near to the chief mourner.

"Behold, effendi, may our souls be thy sacrifice, and may God give
coolness to thine eyes, speak to us by the will of God!"

For a moment the white-robed figure stood looking at them in silence;
then he raised his hand and motioned towards the high pulpit, which was
almost underneath the place where Dicky and Renshaw stood. Going over,
he mounted the steps, and the people followed and crowded upon the
pulpit.

"A nice jack-pot that," said Renshaw, as he scanned the upturned faces
through the opening in the wall. "A pretty one-eyed lot."

"Shows how they love their country. Their eyes were put out by their
mothers when they were babes, to avoid conscription. . . . Listen,
Yankee: Egypt is talking. Now, we'll see!"

Dicky's lips were pressed tight together, and he stroked his faint
moustache with a thumb-nail meditatively. His eyes were not on the
speaker, but on the distant sky, the Mokattam Hills and the forts
Napoleon had built there. He was listening intently to Abdalla's high,
clear voice, which rang through the courts of the ruined mosque.

"In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful, children of Egypt,
listen. Me ye have known years without number, and ye know that I am of
you, as ye are of me. Our feet are in the same shoes, we gather from the
same date-palm, of the same goolah we drink. My father's father--now in
the bosom of God, praise be to God!--builded this mosque; and my father,
whose soul abides in peace with God, he cherished it till evil days came
upon this land. 'Be your gifts to this mosque neither of silver nor
copper, but of tears and prayers,' said my father, Ebn Abdalla, ere he
unrolled his green turban and wound himself in it for his winding-sheet.
'Though it be till the Karadh-gatherers return, yet shall ye replace nor
stone nor piece of wood, save in the gates thereof, till good days come
once more, and the infidel and the Turk be driven from the land.' Thus
spake my father. . . ."

There came a stir and a murmuring among the crowd, and cries of "Allahu
Akbar!" "Peace, peace!" urged the figure in white. "Nay, make no
noise. This is the house of the dead, of one who hath seen God. . . .
'Nothing shall be repaired, save the gates of the mosque of Ebn Mahmoud,
the mosque of my father's father,' so said my father. Also said he, 'And
one shall stand at the gates and watch, though the walls crumble away,
till the day when the land shall again be our land, and the chains of the
stranger be forged in every doorway.' . . . But no, ye shall not lift
up your voices in anger. This is the abode of peace, and the mosque is
my mosque, and the dead my dead."

"The dead is our dead, effendi--may God give thee everlasting years!"
called a blind man from the crowd. Up in the tower Dicky had listened
intently, and as the speech proceeded his features contracted; once he
gripped the arm of Renshaw.

"It's coming on to blow," he said, in the pause made by the blind man's
interruption. "There'll be shipwreck somewhere."

"Ye know the way by which I came," continued Abdalla loudly. "Nothing is
hid from you. I came near to the person of the Prince, whom God make
wise while yet the stars of his life give light! In the palace of Abdin
none was preferred before me. I was much in the sun, and mine eyes were
dazzled. Yet in season I spake the truth, and for you I laboured. But
not as one hath a life to give and seeks to give it. For the dazzle that
was in mine eyes hid from me the fulness of your trials. But an end
there was to these things. She came to the palace a slave-Noor-ala-Noor.
. . . Nay, nay, be silent still, my brothers. Her soul was the soul
of one born free. On her lips was wisdom. In her heart was truth like a
flaming sword. To the Prince she spoke not as a slave to a slave, but in
high level terms. He would have married her, but her life lay in the
hollow of her hand, and the hand was a hand to open and shut according as
the soul willed. She was ready to close it so that none save Allah might
open it again. Then in anger the Prince would have given her to his
bowab at the gates, or to the Nile, after the manner of a Turk or a
Persian tyrant--may God purge him of his loathsomeness . . . !"

He paused, as though choking with passion and grief, and waved a hand
over the crowd in agitated command.

"Here's the old sore open at last--which way now?" said Dicky in a
whisper. "It's the toss of a penny where he'll pull up. As I thought
. . . 'Sh!" he added as Renshaw was about to speak.

Abdalla continued. "Then did I stretch forth my hand, and, because I
loved her, a slave with the freedom of God in her soul and on her face,
I said, 'Come with me,' and behold! she came, without a word, for our
souls spake to each other, as it was in the olden world, ere the hearts
of men were darkened. I, an Egyptian of a despised and down-trodden
land, where all men save the rich are slaves, and the rich go in the
fear of their lives; she, a woman from afar, of that ancient tribe who
conquered Egypt long ago--we went forth from the palace alone and
penniless. He, the Prince, dared not follow to do me harm, for my
father's father ye knew, and my father ye knew, and me ye knew since I
came into the world, and in all that we had ye shared while yet we had to
give; yea, and he feared ye. We lived among ye, poor as ye are poor, yet
rich for that Egypt was no poorer because of us." He waved his hand as
though to still the storm he was raising. . . . "If ye call aloud, I
will drive ye from this place of peace, this garden of her who was called
Light from the Light. It hath been so until yesterday, when God stooped
and drew the veil from her face, and she dropped the garment of life and
fled from the world. . . . Go, go hence," he added, his voice thick
with sorrow. "But ere ye go, answer me, as ye have souls that desire God
and the joys of Paradise, will ye follow where I go, when I come to call
ye forth? Will ye obey, if I command?"

"By the will of God, thou hast purchased our hearts we will do thy will
for ever," was the answer of the throng.

"Go then, bring down the infidels that have stood in the minaret above,
where the Muezzin calls to prayer;" sharply called Abdalla, and waved an
arm towards the tower where Dicky and Renshaw were.

An oath broke from the lips of the Southerner; but Dicky smiled. "He's
done it in style," he said. "Come along." He bounded down the steps to
the doorway before the crowd had blocked the way. "They might toss us
out of that minaret," he added, as they both pushed their way into the
open.

"You take too many risks, effendi," he called up to Abdalla in French,
as excited Arabs laid hands upon them, and were shaken off. "Call away
these fools!" he added coolly to the motionless figure watching from the
pulpit stairs.

Cries of "Kill-kill the infidels!" resounded on all sides; but Dicky
called up again to Abdalla. "Stop this nonsense, effendi." Then,
without awaiting an answer, he shouted to the crowd: "I am Donovan Pasha.
Touch me, and you touch Ismail. I haven't come to spy, but to sorrow
with you for Noor-ala-Noor, whose soul is with God, praise be to God, and
may God give her spirit to you! I have come to weep for him in whom
greatness speaks; I have come for love of Abdalla the Egyptian. . . .
Is it a sin to stand apart in silence and to weep unseen? Was it a sin
against the Moslem faith that in this minaret I prayed God to comfort
Abdalla, grandson of Ebn Mahmoud, Egyptian of the Egyptians? Was it not
I who held Ismail's hand, when he--being in an anger--would have scoured
the bazaars with his horsemen for Abdalla and Noor-ala-Noor? This is
known to Abdalla, whom God preserve and exalt. Is not Abdalla friend to
Donovan Pasha?"

Dicky was known to hundreds present. There was not a merchant from the
bazaars but had had reason to appreciate his presence, either by friendly
gossip over a cup of coffee, or by biting remarks in Arabic, when they
lied to him, or by the sweep of his stick over the mastaba and through
the chattels of some vile-mouthed pedlar who insulted English ladies whom
he was escorting through the bazaar. They knew his face, his tongue, and
the weight and style of his arm; and though they would cheerfully have
seen him the sacrifice of the Jehad to the cry of Alldhu Akbar! they
respected him for himself, and they feared him because he was near to the
person of Ismail.

He was the more impressive because in the midst of wealth and splendour
he remained poor: he had more than once bought turquoises and opals and
horses and saddlery, which he paid for in instalments, like any little
merchant. Those, therefore, who knew him, were well inclined to leave
him alone, and those who did not know him were impressed by his speech.
If it was true that he was friend to Abdalla, then his fate was in the
hand of God, not theirs. They all had heard of little Donovan Pasha,
whom Ismail counted only less than Gordon Pasha, the mad Englishman, who
emptied his pocket for an old servant, gave his coat to a beggar, and
rode in the desert so fast that no Arab could overtake him.

"Call off your terriers, effendi," said Dicky again in French; for
Renshaw was restive under the hands that were laid on his arm, and the
naboots that threatened him. "My friend here is American. He stands for
the United States in Egypt."

Abdalla had not moved a muscle during the disturbance, or during Dicky's
speech. He seemed but the impassive spectator, though his silence and
the look in his eyes were ominous. It would appear as though he waited
to see whether the Englishman and his friend could free themselves from
danger. If they could, then it was God's will; if they could not,
Malaish! Dicky understood. In this he read Abdalla like a parchment,
and though he had occasion to be resentful, he kept his nerves and his
tongue in an equable mood. He knew that Abdalla would speak now. The
Egyptian raised his hand.

"In the name of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful, go your ways," he
said loudly. "It is as Donovan Pasha says, he stayed the hand of Ismail
for my sake. Noor-ala-Noor, the Light from the Light, saw into his
heart, and it was the honest heart of a fool. And these are the words of
the Koran, That the fool is one whom God has made His temple for a
season, thereafter withdrawing. None shall injure the temple. Were not
your hearts bitter against him, and when he spoke did ye not soften? He
hath no inheritance of Paradise, but God shall blot him out in His own
time. Bismillah! God cool his resting-place in that day. Donovan
Pasha's hand is for Egypt, not against her. We are brothers, though the
friendship of man is like the shade of the acacia. Yet while the
friendship lives, it lives. When God wills it to die, it dies. . . ."
He waved his hand towards the gateway, and came slowly down the steep
steps.

With a curious look in his eyes, Dicky watched the people go. Another
curious look displaced it and stayed, as Abdalla silently touched his
forehead, his lips, and his heart three times, and then reached out a
hand to Dicky and touched his palm. Three times they touched palms, and
then Abdalla saluted Renshaw in the same fashion, making the gestures
once only.

From the citadel came the boom of the evening gun. Without a word
Abdalla left them, and, going apart, he turned his face towards Mecca and
began his prayers. The court-yard of the mosque was now empty, save for
themselves alone.

The two walked apart near the deserted fountain in the middle of the
court-yard. "The friendship of man is like the shade of the acacia. Yet
while the friendship lives, it lives. When God wills it to die, it
dies!" mused Dicky with a significant smile. "Friendship walks on thin
ice in the East, Yankee."

"See here, Donovan Pasha, I don't like taking this kind of risk without a
gun," said Renshaw.

"You're an official, a diplomat; you mustn't carry a gun."

"It's all very fine, but it was a close shave for both of us. You've got
an object--want to get something out of it. But what do I get for my
money?"

"Perhaps the peace of Europe. Perhaps a page of reminiscences for the
'New York World'. Perhaps some limelight chapters of Egyptian history.
Perhaps a little hari-kari. Don't you feel it in the air?" Dicky drew
in a sibilant breath. "All this in any other country would make you
think you were having a devil of a time. It's on the regular 'menoo'
here, and you don't get a thrill."

"The peace of Europe--Abdalla has something to do with that?"

"Multiply the crowd here a thousand times as much, and that's what he
could represent in one day. Give him a month, and every man in Egypt
would be collecting his own taxes where he could find 'em. Abdalla there
could be prophet and patriot to-morrow, and so he will be soon, and to
evil ends, if things don't take a turn. That Egyptian-Arab has a tongue,
he has brains, he has sorrow, he loved Noor-ala-Noor. Give a man the
egotism of grief, and eloquence, and popularity, and he'll cut as sharp
as the khamsin wind. The dust he'll raise will blind more eyes than you
can see in a day's march, Yankee. You may take my word for it."

Renshaw looked at Dicky thoughtfully. "You're wasting your life here.
You'll get nothing out of it. You're a great man, Donovan Pasha, but
others'll reap where you sowed."

Dicky laughed softly. "I've had more fun for my money than most men of
my height and hair--" he stroked his beardless chin humorously. "And the
best is to come, Yankee. This show is cracking. The audience are going
to rush it."

Renshaw laid a hand on his shoulder. "Pasha, to tell you God's truth, I
wouldn't have missed this for anything; but what I can't make out is, why
you brought me here. You don't do things like that for nothing. You bet
you don't. You'd not put another man in danger, unless he was going to
get something out of it, or somebody was. It looks so damned useless.
You've done your little job by your lonesome, anyhow. I was no use."

"Your turn comes," said Dicky, flashing a look of friendly humour at him.
"America is putting her hand in the dough--through you. You'll know, and
your country'll know, what's going on here in the hum of the dim bazaars.
Ismail's got to see how things stand, and you've got to help me tell him.
You've got to say I tell the truth, when the French gentlemen, who have
their several spokes in the Egyptian wheel, politely say I lie. Is it
too much, or too little, Yankee?"

Renshaw almost gulped. "By Jerusalem!" was all he could say. "And we
wonder why the English swing things as they do!" he growled, when his
breath came freely.

Abdalla had finished his prayers; he was coming towards them. Dicky went
to meet him.

"Abdalla, I'm hungry," he said; "so are you. You've eaten nothing since
sunset, two days ago."

"I am thirsty, saadat el basha," he answered, and his voice was husky.

"Come, I will give you to eat, by the goodness of God."

It was the time of Ramadan, when no Mahommedan eats food or touches
liquid from the rising to the going down of the sun. As the sunset-gun
boomed from the citadel, lids had been snatched off millions of cooking-
pots throughout the land, and fingers had been thrust into the meat and
rice of the evening feast, and their owner had gulped down a bowl of
water. The smell of a thousand cooking-pots now came to them over the
walls of the mosque. Because of it, Abdalla's command to the crowd to
leave had been easier of acceptance. Their hunger had made them
dangerous. Danger was in the air. The tax-gatherers had lately gone
their rounds, and the agents of the Mouffetish had wielded the kourbash
without mercy and to some purpose. It was perhaps lucky that the
incident had occurred within smell of the evening feasts and near the
sounding of the sunset-gun.

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