A mad act; for the horse stumbled, and in recovering himself plunged forward heavily. Dicky expected the hind hoofs to crush down on his back or neck, and drew in his breath; but the horse, excited by the cries of the people, drove clear of him, and the hind hoofs fell with a sickening thud on the back and neck of the dervish who had been the cause of the disaster. Dicky lay still for a moment to get his breath, then sprang to his feet lightly, cast a swift glance of triumph towards the Khedive, and turned to the dervishes who had lain beside him. The man who had shrunk away from the horse’s hoofs was dead, the one on the other side was badly wounded, and the last, bruised and dazed, got slowly to his feet. “God is great,” said Dicky to him: “I have no hurt, Mahommed.” “It is the will of God. Extolled be Him who created thee!” answered the dervish, all suspicion gone, and admiration in his eyes, as Dicky cried his Allah Kerim--“God is bountiful!” A kavass touched Dicky on the arm. “His Highness would speak with you,” he said. Dicky gladly turned his back on the long lane of frantic immolation and the sight of the wounded and dead being carried away. Coming over to the Khedive he salaamed, and kneeling on the ground touched the toe of Ismail’s boot with his forehead. Ismail smiled, and his eyes dropped with satisfaction upon the prostrate Dicky. Never before had an Englishman done this, and that Dicky, of all Englishmen, should do it gave him an ironical pleasure which chased his black humour away. “It is written that the true believer shall come unscathed from the hoofs of the horse. Thou hast no hurt, Mahommed?” “None, Highness, whose life God preserve,” said Dicky in faultless Arabic, with the eyes of Sadik upon him searching his mystery. “May the dogs bite the heart of thine enemies! What is thy name?” said Ismail. “Rekab, so God wills, Highness.” “Thine occupation?” “I am a poor scribe, Highness,” answered Dicky with a dangerous humour, though he had seen a look in the Khedive’s face which boded only safety. “I have need of scribes. Get you to the Palace of Abdin, and wait upon me at sunset after prayers,” said Ismail. “I am the slave of your Highness. Peace be on thee, O Prince of the Faithful!” “A moment, Mahommed. Hast thou wife or child?” “None, Highness.” “Nor kith nor kin?” Ismail’s smile was grim. “They be far away, beyond the blessed rule of your Highness.” “Thou wilt desire to return to them. How long wilt thou serve me?” asked Ismail slowly. “Till the two Karadh-gatherers return,” answered Dicky, quoting the old Arabic saying which means for ever, since the two Karadh-gatherers who went to gather the fruit of the sant and the leaves of the selem never returned. “So be it,” said the Khedive, and, rising, waved Dicky away. “At sunset!”