Again it is probable that the interpreter did not give this speech verbatim, for while he was delivering it, the Mahdi was scanning the features of the group of prisoners with a calm but keen eye. Making a sign to one of his attendants to lead Molloy to one side, he said a few words to another, who thereupon placed Miles in front of his master. "Are you an officer?" was the first question put. "No," answered our hero, with quiet dignity, but without the slightest tinge of defiance either in tone or look. "Will you tell me how many men you have in Suakim?" "No." "Dare you refuse?" "Yes; it is against the principles of a British soldier to give information to an enemy." "That's right, John Miles," said Molloy, in an encouraging tone; "give it 'im hot! They can only kill us once, an'--" "Silence!" hissed the Mahdi between his teeth. "Silence!" echoed the interpreter. "All right, you nigger! Tell the baboon to go on. I won't run foul of him again; he ain't worth it." This was said with free-and-easy contempt. "Do you not know," resumed the Mahdi, turning again to Miles with a fierce expression, "that I have power to take your life?" "You have no power at all beyond what God gives to you," said Miles quietly. Even the angry Mahdi was impressed with the obvious truth of this statement, but his anger was not much allayed by it. "Know you not," he continued, "that I have the power to torture you to death?" Our hero did not at once reply. He felt that a grand crisis in his life had arrived, that he stood there before an assemblage of "unbelievers," and that, to some extent, the credit of his countrymen for courage, fidelity, and Christianity was placed in his hands. "Mahdi," he said, impressively, as he drew himself up, "you have indeed the power to torture and kill me, but you have _not_ the power to open my lips, or cause me to bring dishonour on my country!" "Brayvo, Johnny! Pitch into him!" cried the delighted Molloy. "Fool!" exclaimed the Mahdi, whose ire was rekindled as much by the seaman's uncomprehended comment as by our hero's fearless look and tone, "you cannot bring dishonour on a country which is already dishonoured. What dishonour can exceed that of being leagued with the oppressor against the oppressed? Go! You shall be taught to sympathise with the oppressed by suffering oppression!" He waved his hand, and, quickly leaving the court, walked towards his horse, where the fine-looking negro runner stood and held his stirrup, while he prepared to mount. Instead of mounting, however, he stood for a few seconds looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then he spoke a few words to the runner, who bowed his head slightly as his master mounted and rode away. Grasping a small lance and flag, which seemed to be the emblems of his office, he ran off at full speed in front of the horse to clear the way for his master.