The Weavers: a tale of England and Egypt of fifty years ago - Complete. Gilbert Parker

to give that of great value as though it were of no worth—is it not the Great Lesson?” He said it with such an air of sincerity, with such dissimulation, that, for the moment, David was deceived. There was, however, on the face of the listening Kaid a curious, cynical smile. He had heard all, and he knew the sardonic meaning behind Nahoum’s words.

      Fat High Pasha, the Chief Chamberlain, the corrupt and corruptible, intervened. “It is not so hard to be careless when care would be useless,” he said, with a chuckle. “When the khamsin blows the dust-storms upon the caravan, the camel-driver hath no care for his camels. ‘Malaish!’ he says, and buries his face in his yelek.”

      “Life is beautiful and so difficult—to save,” observed Nahoum, in a tone meant to tempt David on one hand and to reach the ears of the notorious Achmet Pasha, whose extortions, cruelties, and taxations had built his master’s palaces, bribed his harem, given him money to pay the interest on his European loans, and made himself the richest man in Egypt, whose spies were everywhere, whose shadow was across every man’s path. Kaid might slay, might toss a pasha or a slave into the Nile now and then, might invite a Bey to visit him, and stroke his beard and call him brother and put diamond-dust in the coffee he drank, so that he died before two suns came and went again, “of inflammation and a natural death”; but he, Achmet Pasha, was the dark Inquisitor who tortured every day, for whose death all men prayed, and whom some would have slain, but that another worse than himself might succeed him.

      At Nahoum’s words the dusky brown of Achmet’s face turned as black as the sudden dilation of the pupil of an eye deepens its hue, and he said with a guttural accent:

      “Every man hath a time to die.”

      “But not his own time,” answered Nahoum maliciously.

      “It would appear that in Egypt he hath not always the choice of the fashion or the time,” remarked David calmly. He had read the malice behind their words, and there had flashed into his own mind tales told him, with every circumstance of accuracy, of deaths within and without the Palace. Also he was now aware that Nahoum had mocked him. He was concerned to make it clear that he was not wholly beguiled.

      “Is there, then, for a man choice of fashion or time in England, effendi?” asked Nahoum, with assumed innocence.

      “In England it is a matter between the Giver and Taker of life and himself—save where murder does its work,” said David.

      “And here it is between man and man—is it that you would say?” asked Nahoum.

      “There seem wider privileges here,” answered David drily.

      “Accidents will happen, privileges or no,” rejoined Nahoum, with lowering eyelids.

      The Prince intervened. “Thy own faith forbids the sword, forbids war, or—punishment.”

      “The Prophet I follow was called the Prince of Peace, friend,” answered David, bowing gravely across the table.

      “Hast thou never killed a man?” asked Kaid, with interest in his eyes. He asked the question as a man might ask another if he had never visited Paris.

      “Never, by the goodness of God, never,” answered David.

      “Neither in punishment nor in battle?”

      “I am neither judge nor soldier, friend.”

      “Inshallah, thou hast yet far to go! Thou art young yet. Who can tell?”

      “I have never so far to go as that, friend,” said David, in a voice that rang a little.

      “To-morrow is no man’s gift.”

      David was about to answer, but chancing to raise his eyes above the Prince Pasha’s head, his glance was arrested and startled by seeing a face—the face of a woman-looking out of a panel in a mooshrabieh screen in a gallery above. He would not have dwelt upon the incident, he would have set it down to the curiosity of a woman of the harem, but that the face looking out was that of an English girl, and peering over her shoulder was the dark, handsome face of an Egyptian or a Turk.

      Self-control was the habit of his life, the training of his faith, and, as a rule, his face gave little evidence of inner excitement. Demonstration was discouraged, if not forbidden, among the Quakers, and if, to others, it gave a cold and austere manner, in David it tempered to a warm stillness the powerful impulses in him, the rivers of feeling which sometimes roared through his veins.

      Only Nahoum Pasha had noticed his arrested look, so motionless did he sit; and now, without replying, he bowed gravely and deferentially to Kaid, who rose from the table. He followed with the rest. Presently the Prince sent Higli Pasha to ask his nearer presence.

      The Prince made a motion of his hand, and the circle withdrew. He waved David to a seat.

      “To-morrow thy business shall be settled,” said the Prince suavely, “and on such terms as will not startle. Death-tribute is no new thing in the East. It is fortunate for thee that the tribute is from thy hand to my hand, and not through many others to mine.”

      “I am conscious I have been treated with favour, friend,” said David. “I would that I might show thee kindness. Though how may a man of no account make return to a great Prince?”

      “By the beard of my father, it is easily done, if thy kindness is a real thing, and not that which makes me poorer the more I have of it—as though one should be given a herd of horses which must not be sold but still must be fed.”

      “I have given thee truth. Is not truth cheaper than falsehood?”

      “It is the most expensive thing in Egypt; so that I despair of buying thee. Yet I would buy thee to remain here—here at my court; here by my hand which will give thee the labour thou lovest, and will defend thee if defence be needed. Thou hast not greed, thou hast no thirst for honour, yet thou hast wisdom beyond thy years. Kaid has never besought men, but he beseeches thee. Once there was in Egypt, Joseph, a wise youth, who served a Pharaoh, and was his chief counsellor, and it was well with the land. Thy name is a good name; well-being may follow thee. The ages have gone, and the rest of the world has changed, but Egypt is the same Egypt, the Nile rises and falls, and the old lean years and fat years come and go. Though I am in truth a Turk, and those who serve and rob me here are Turks, yet the fellah is the same as he was five thousand years ago. What Joseph the Israelite did, thou canst do; for I am no more unjust than was that Rameses whom Joseph served. Wilt thou stay with me?”

      David looked at Kaid as though he would read in his face the reply that he must make, but he did not see Kaid; he saw, rather, the face of one he had loved more than Jonathan had been loved by the young shepherd-prince of Israel. In his ears he heard the voice that had called him in his sleep-the voice of Benn Claridge; and, at the same instant, there flashed into his mind a picture of himself fighting outside the tavern beyond Hamley and bidding farewell to the girl at the crossroads.

      “Friend, I cannot answer thee now,” he said, in a troubled voice.

      Kaid rose. “I will give thee an hour to think upon it. Come with me.” He stepped forward. “To-morrow I will answer thee, Kaid.”

      “To-morrow there is work for thee to do. Come.” David followed him.

      The eyes that followed the Prince and the Quaker were not friendly. What Kaid had long foreshadowed seemed at hand: the coming of a European counsellor and confidant. They realised that in the man who had just left the room with Kaid there were characteristics unlike those they had ever met before in Europeans.

      “A madman,” whispered High Pasha to Achmet the Ropemaker.

      “Then his will be the fate of the swine of Gadarene,” said Nahoum Pasha, who had heard.

      “At least one need not argue with a madman.” The face of Achmet the Ropemaker was not more pleasant than his dark words.

      “It is not the madman with whom you have to deal, but his keeper,” rejoined Nahoum.

      Nahoum’s