“I got your uncle’s medicine chest and put three seidlitz powders in each bowl. The white powder was not noticed because the Mahdi insists on the sacred sand from Mecca being at the bottom of the basin.” “It was a shame, Max. How could you do it?” “You ought to thank me, for everyone believes it to have been a miracle.” “Max, Max, I am afraid that you are indeed an infidel.” “Not at all, Ibrahim, old fellow, only----What was that?” “A bugle call ‘to arms.’” The conversation was over; Madcap Max became the soldier once again. He buckled on his scimiter and joined his men. “The cohorts of the infidels are coming,” shouted the Mahdi. “But not one will go back. The grave shall receive each one who fights beneath the crescent without the star.” Through a mountain pass five thousand men, headed by the Governor of Fashoda and the Chief of Shiluk, were seen approaching. On a jet-black Arab horse Hubert Ponsonby rode, looking kinglike and majestic. The whiteness of his skin contrasted strangely with the tawny color of the soldiers. He was clad in white, and he looked almost ghostly as he bestrode the back of the raven-colored horse. He did everything for effect. “Allah il Allah!” shouted the Mahdists, and the same cry was repeated by the Fashodans. “For Mahomet and the Mahdi!” cried the Mahdists, and the Fashodans replied with stentorian voices: “For Mahomet and the khedive.” The Fashodans commenced the battle. They were weary and wanted it over. They believed the victory would be an easy one. They had no water, and the wells were guarded by the Mahdists. Hence it was that they precipitated the struggle. The Mahdi was practically unarmed. He carried a spear, but from it streamed pennons on which were written passages from the Koran. There was something grand about this religious fanatic. Strong and brave as a lion, yet he was as simple and guileless as a child. He hated war, and yet believed it to be a sacred mission. He knew it was only by the sword that he could win, and yet he would not use the weapon himself. When the fight was hottest he was calm. The bullets flew about him like hail, but he sat unharmed and as cool as if he knew the leaden hail could not hurt him. On came the legions from Fashoda. But it was evident that they were disheartened. “Who is that white man?” asked Max. “Hubert Ponsonby,” answered one of the Mahdists. “An Englishman?” “Yes.” “It is the same. He cheated my father’s firm. I wondered what had become of him. Wonder if he knows me? It is three years since we met, and I was only sixteen then.” Max thought all this quicker than the pen can write the words. He called his men to follow him, and swinging his scimiter above his head dashed into the very midst of the attacking force. He pushed his way through until he found himself by the side of Hubert’s coal-black horse. “Hubert Ponsonby!” exclaimed Max. “Who calls me by that name?” “I do.” “You; and who are you?”