He began to wish that he had never heard of the Mahdi, or the Mameluke. But regrets were useless. He knew he had to die. Had it been on the battlefield, pitted against a foe, he would have been proud to die--because he knew no disgrace would be attached to it. But to die in a sack, like a mangy dog or vicious cat, was so hurtful to his self-respect and so humiliating that he cried with vexation. The water got to his lungs. His stomach was full of it. His brain grew dizzy. The singing in his ears had become like the roaring of the waters of a great cataract. Mercifully unconsciousness came, and had not the conspirators been discussing their schemes of rioting and rebellion at night by the banks of the Nile, Madcap Max would never have been the hero of this story. Shula rubbed Max briskly. He straightened out the madcap’s body and laid it face downward. The conspirators began kneading the poor fellow’s back--sitting on it, treading it, kneeling on it, and using every means of which they knew to restore life. “Get out of that and meet a fellow face to face.” The words startled the conspirators. They were uttered by Max, who, black and blue with the treatment he had been subjected to, had revived with great suddenness. He did not realize where he was, but he knew he was being hurt, hence his calling out. He jumped to his feet. “Shula!” he exclaimed. “Max!” “Yes. How did you find me? Was I drowned? Where am I?” “You are not drowned; you are by the Nile’s water, and the less you say the longer you will be likely to live. Come--let us get home. Can you walk?” “Of course I can.” Max started forward, but before his legs had moved a dozen times he fell on his face. The conspirators lifted him up, and as no conveyances were to be found in Kordofan at that hour of the night, they had to carry him to Shula’s residence. Before morning’s dawn he had told his adventures and laughed at the escapade. “If ever the Mahdi rules in Kordofan I am going to see Lalla,” he said. “I want to know more about her.” “Not even the prophet could give you the right to enter any man’s harem,” said Shula. “Then your Mahdi must be a queer sort of fellow.” Max was unable to talk longer, for he was naturally weak from his struggles in the Nile. Twenty-four hours elapsed before he was able to feel that he was the strong athlete again. When he awoke on the morning of the third day he heard cries which roused him: “_Allah il Allah!_” “Long live the Mahdi!” “Down with the foreigner!” “The Mahdi has come!” Max looked at Shula, but the merchant did not speak. His face was white as that of a corpse. He knew that he had staked all his property and his life on the riot which was then in progress. “Is it true? Has the Mahdi come?” “No, Max, but the people are expecting him.” A heavy fusillade was heard on the streets, the windows were shaken, and some panes of glass broken. “What does it mean?” “They are fighting,” answered Shula.