Now, a cold pistol suddenly thrust in your face is disconcerting, no matter how well laid your plans. It was useless for the Orderly to raise his hand: a bullet is quicker than the muscles of the arm and the stroke of a knife. The two stood silent an instant, the sleeping man peaceful between them. Dicky made a motion of his head towards the door. Mahommed Ibrahim turned. Dicky did not lower his pistol as the Orderly, obeying, softly went as he had softly come. Out through the doorway, up the stairs, then upon the moonlit deck, the cold muzzle of the pistol at the head of Mahommed Ibrahim. Dicky turned now, and faced him, the pistol still pointed. Then Mahommed Ibrahim spoke. “Malaish!” he said. That was contempt. It was Mahommedan resignation; it was the inevitable. “Malaish--no matter!” he said again; and “no matter” was in good English. Dicky’s back was to the light, the Orderly’s face in the full glow of it. Dicky was standing beside the wire communicating with the engineer’s cabin. He reached out his hand and pulled the hook. The bell rang below. The two above stood silent, motionless, the pistol still levelled. Holgate, the young Yorkshire engineer, pulled himself up to the deck two steps of the ladder at a time. “Yes, sir,” he said, coming forward quickly, but stopping short when he saw the levelled pistol. “Drop the knife, Ibrahim,” said Dicky in a low voice. The Orderly dropped the knife. “Get it, Holgate,” said Dicky; and Holgate stooped and picked it up. Then he told Holgate the story in a few words. The engineer’s fingers tightened on the knife. “Put it where it will be useful, Holgate,” said Dicky. Holgate dropped it inside his belt. “Full steam, and turn her nose to Cairo. No time to lose!” He had told Holgate earlier in the evening to keep up steam. He could see a crowd slowly gathering under the palm-trees between the shore and Beni Hassan. They were waiting for Mahommed Ibrahim’s signal. Holgate was below, the sailors were at the cables. “Let go ropes!” Dicky called. A minute later the engine was quietly churning away below; two minutes later the ropes were drawn in; half a minute later still the nose of the Amenhotep moved in the water. She backed from the Nile mud, lunged free. “An old man had three sons; one was a thief, another a rogue, and the worst of the three was a soldier--and he dies first! What have you got to say before you say your prayers?” said Dicky to the Orderly. “Mafish!” answered Mahommed Ibrahim, moveless. “Mafish--nothing!” And he said “nothing” in good English. “Say your prayers then, Mahommed Ibrahim,” said Dicky in that voice like a girl’s; and he backed a little till he rested a shoulder against the binnacle.