The chaplain had read the solemn words, the volleys had been fired, to waken the echoes from where they had slumbered among the ruins of Khartoum, and the victorious general and his brave staff had paid their last duties of respect. As the combined flags floated and waved together with a soft rustle in the desert wind, the general and his officers drew back from the hero's grave and then stood fast, as a thin, worn-looking, sun-burned man in tattered white cotton garments, and bearing his left arm in a sling, stepped forward--a dervish slave in dress, but with the bearing of a British officer, and closely followed by a black. For the moment it seemed like an intrusion, and there was a movement amongst the Sirdar's guard as if to force them back. But an officer raised his hand, and then whispered to another at his side-- "Gordon's friend; a prisoner with him at his death." "Yes, but the black fellow?" said the other, in the same low tone. "Pst! Tell you after--brother--came in disguise--to seek him out." Then all stood watching in the midst of a painful silence as they saw the rescued victim of the Mahdi's reign of terror sink softly upon his knees by his leader's grave and lay upon it a leaf freshly taken from a neighbouring palm, while his companion stood reverently close behind. A minute had elapsed, and then those present drew back, and a hand was laid upon the kneeling man's shoulder. The latter rose slowly, and he who had silently warned him that it was time to go heard him murmur-- "Goodbye, brave soldier and truest friend. I did my best. But it is not Goodbye: for you will be always with us--one of Britain's greatest sons--your name will never die." Then turning to his companion with a faint, sad smile, he said softly-- "Our country was slow to move, but at last it has done its duty well. Mine was a bitter time of waiting, but it is as nothing now, for I have been here to see." He turned and looked up quickly, for there was a sharp fluttering sound as of wings. "The British flag!" he said, with a look of pride lighting up his deeply bronzed face. "There, Frank, lad, our work is done, and the way is open. Now for rest--for the home I never hoped to see again." A low murmur of admiration ran along the ranks of the British soldiers, officers and men, as the brothers walked slowly back to where a group was standing, one of whom was a good-looking, sun-browned Hakim in snowy turban and flowing robes, attended by a swarthy man in a _fez_--a man in white garb with a very English face, and just behind him a venerable Sheikh. For all who were present now had learned the facts, and as the brothers passed, one of the officers of the Sirdar's guard exclaimed-- "By George! and yet there are people who say we have no heroes now!" THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's In the Mahdi's Grasp, by George Manville Fenn