Dicky’s words were chosen as a jeweller chooses stones for the ring of a betrothed woman. “You had a friend in London, a brother of hell like yourself. He, like you, had lived in Paris; and that is why this thing happened. You had your own women slaves from Kordofan, from Circassia, from Syria, from your own land. It was not enough: you must have an English girl in your harem. You knew you could not buy her, you knew that none would come to you for love, neither the drab nor the lady. None would lay her hand in that of a leprous dog like yourself. So you lied, your friend lied for you--sons of dogs of liars all of you, beasts begotten of beasts! You must have a governess for your children, forsooth! And the girl was told she would come to a palace. She came to a stable, and to shame and murder.” Dicky paused. The fat, greasy hands of the Mudir fumbled towards the water-glass. It was empty, but he raised it to his lips and drained the air. Dicky’s eyes fastened him like arrows. “The girl died an hour ago,” he continued. “I was with her when she died. You must pay the price, Abbas Bey.” He paused. There was a moment’s silence, and then a voice, dry like that of one who comes out of chloroform, said: “What is the price?” The little touch of cruelty in Dicky’s nature, working with a sense of justice and an ever-ingenious mind, gave a pleasant quietness to the inveterate hate that possessed him. He thought of another woman--of her who was to die to-morrow. “There was another woman,” said Dicky: “one of your own people. She was given a mind and a soul. You deserted her in your harem--what was there left for her to think of but death? She had no child. But death was a black prospect; for you would go to heaven, and she would be in the outer darkness; and she loved you! A woman’s brain thinks wild things. She fled from you, and went the pilgrimage to Mecca. She did all that a man might do to save her soul, according to Mahomet. She is to die to-morrow by the will of the people--and the Mudir of the Fayoum.” Dicky paused once more. He did not look at the Mudir, but out of the window towards the Bahr-el-Yusef, where the fellaheen of the Mudir’s estate toiled like beasts of burden with the barges and the great khiassas laden with cotton and sugar-cane. “God make your words merciful!” said the Mudir. “What would you have me do?” “The Khedive, our master, has given me your life,” said Dicky. “I will make your end easy. The woman has done much to save her soul. She buries her face in the dust because she hath no salvation. It is written in the Koran that a man may save the soul of his wife. You have your choice: will you come to Cairo to Sadik Pasha, and be crucified like a bandit of your own province, or will you die with the woman in the Birket-el-Kurun to-morrow at sunrise, and walk with her into the Presence and save her soul, and pay the price of the English life?”