“England will ask the price of the young man’s life of you, Excellency.” “England dare not move--is thy servant a fool? Every Mussulman in the land would raise the green flag--the Jehad would be upon ye!” “He is so young. He meant no ill. The face of your daughter drew him on. He did not realise his crimen--or its penalty.” “It is a fool’s reasoning. Because he was a stranger and an infidel, so has he been told of dark things done to those who desecrate our faith.” “Had he been an Egyptian or a Turk--” “I should slay him, were he Ismail himself. Mine own is mine own, as Mahomet hath said. The man shall die--and who shall save him? Not even the Sultan himself.” “There are concessions in the Fayoum--you have sought them long.” “Bah!” “There is the Grand Cordon of the Mejidieh; there is a way to it, Excellency.” “The man’s blood!” “There is a high office to be vacant soon, near to the person of the Khedive, with divers moneys and loans--” “To see Donovan Pasha cringe and beg is better.” “There is that mercy which one day you may have to ask for yourself or for your own--” “The fool shall die. And who shall save him?” “Well, I will save him,” said Dicky, rising slowly to his feet. “Pish! Go to the Khedive with the tale, and I will kill the man within the hour, and tell it abroad, and we shall see where Donovan Pasha will stand to-morrow. The Khedive is not stronger than his people--and there are the French, and others!” He spat upon the floor at Dicky’s feet. “Go, tell the Khedive what you will, dog of an Englishman, son of a dog with a dog’s heart!” Dicky took a step forward, with an ominous flare of colour in his cheek. There was a table between him and Selamlik Pasha. He put both hands upon it, and leaning over said in a voice of steel: “So be it, then. Shall I go to the Khedive and say that this night Mustapha Bey, eldest and chosen son of Selamlik Pasha, the darling of his fat heart, was seized by the Chief Eunuch, the gentle Mizraim, in the harem of his Highness? Shall I tell him that, Trousers?” As Dicky spoke, slowly, calmly, Selamlik Pasha turned a greenish-yellow, his eyes started from his head, his hand chafed the air. “Mustapha Bey--Khedive’s harem!” he stammered in a husky voice. “By the gentle Mizraim, I said,” answered Dicky. “Is Mustapha Bey’s life worth an hour’s purchase? Is Selamlik Pasha safe?” “Is--is he dead?” gasped the cowardly Egyptian, furtively glancing towards the door. Suddenly he fell back fainting, and Dicky threw some water in his face, then set a cup of it beside him. “Drink, and pull yourself together, if you would save yourself,” said Dicky. “Save--save myself,” said Selamlik Pasha, recovering; then, with quick suspicion, and to gain time, added quickly: “Ah, it is a trick! He is not a prisoner--you lie!”