“I have laughed too, I have scorned, I have feigned to disbelieve,” said Lebrun, thickly and passionately. “I laugh no longer. Marengo, Hohenlinden, Jena, Austerlitz--what mortal brain unassisted could have so added victory to victory, could so, and for so long a time, have held the world’s destinies in the hollow of one hand? I am a soldier, monsieur, a simple, uneducated man, and yet I know things and I have seen things that would make the wise falter in their wisdom.” “This red man, amongst others,” said the young officer conciliatingly. A quiver of lightning at the moment glazed the dying face. Great drops stood on it; the fallen cheeks were filling with shadow; the eyeballs shone like porcelain. In spite of himself, a shiver ran down de Sainte Croix’s spine. There was certainly something uncanny in the night, even to war-toughened nerves. Lebrun’s voice had sunk to a whisper as he answered: “Didst thou never hear of the General’s proclamation in Egypt to the Ulemas and Shereefs? He stood then on shifting sand--the English sea-captain had just beaten us. A false step, and he were engulfed for ever. And, to gain the people, he told them that their God had sent him to destroy the enemies of Islam and to trample on the cross.” “Policy, Lebrun,” said de Sainte Croix, lifting his hand to wipe his own wet forehead. “He never meant it.” “Then why, monsieur, did this blasphemy follow immediately on the visit of the red man? There had been no hint of it before--and afterwards he swore to them that their false bible was the true word.” De Sainte Croix snapped somewhat fretfully: “This red man? Who the devil is he?” A shudder quite convulsed the corporal. “Thou hast spoken it, monsieur.” “A figment of your excited fancy, soldier.” “With these eyes I saw him, monsieur. It was ten years ago. I was on guard in a corridor of the Palace at Cairo, _and there came out of the General’s cabinet one who had never gone in_. Little he was, like a child of a hundred years, and he had on a blood-red _bernous_, and his face was black as a Nubian’s. Only at the lips it pulsed with fire, and fire, dim and wavering, travelled under his cheeks. One moment thus he stood--I could have touched him--and, behold! he was a little draped black figure of bronze that stood on a pedestal by a red curtain. It had always been there--I rubbed my eyes----” “_Voilà la chose!_” “Monsieur, I dared. I listened at the General’s door, and I heard him laugh softly to himself--he who never laughs--and he said: ‘Greet thee, Zamiel! Ten years I have given thee to make me a god, or our compact is ended!’ Monsieur, the ten years are passed, and to-night he stands again, as he stood then, at the parting of the ways.” A flash, more brilliant than any that had yet shown, weltered and was gone. The dying soldier lifted his head quickly, with a fearful cry: