But Gordon’s impatience could restrain itself no longer. "Doctor," he said, clutching at the surgeon’s sleeve, "close the door and tell me what has happened." The surgeon repeated the reports which appeared in the English newspapers—about the clearing out of El Azhar, the shooting of the boy, the killing of a hundred students by the sword, and the imprisonment of nearly four hundred others. And then, thinking that the drug he had administered was still beclouding his patient’s brain, he spoke of Gordon’s own share in the bad work of the night before—how he had refused to obey instructions and been ordered under open arrest to return to his own quarters; how he had defied authority, and, making his way to the University, had perpetrated a violent personal attack on the officer commanding the troops there. "I know nothing about it, you know, but what Colonel Macdonald has communicated to the press—contrary, I should think, to Army Regulations and all sense of honour and decency—but he says you have been guilty of a threefold offence; first, mutiny, next desertion, and finally gross assault on an officer while in the execution of his duty." Gordon had hardly listened to this part of the surgeon’s story, but his face betrayed a feverish eagerness when the surgeon said— "There is something else, but I hardly know whether I ought to tell you." "What is it?" asked Gordon, though he knew full well what the surgeon was about to say. "It occurred last night, too, but the Consul-General has managed to keep it out of the morning newspapers. I feel I ought to tell you, though, and if I could be sure you would take it calmly——" "Tell me." "General Graves is dead. He was found dead on the floor of his office. His daughter found him." Gordon covered his face and asked, in a voice which he tried in vain to render natural, "What do they say he died of?" "God!" said the surgeon. "That’s what the Mohammedans call it, and I don’t know that science can find a better name." Suffocating with the sickness of fear, Gordon said, "What about his daughter?" "Bearing herself with a strange stoicism, they say. Not a tear on her face, they tell me. But if I know anything of human nature she is suffering all the more for that, poor girl!" Gordon threw off the counterpane and rose in bed. "I’m better now," he said. "Let me get up. I must go out." "Impossible!" said the surgeon. "You are far too weak to go into the streets. Besides, you would never reach your destination. Macdonald would take care of that. Haven’t I told you? He has given it out that the penalty of military law for the least of your offences is—well, death." Gordon dropped back in bed, and the surgeon continued, "But if you have a message to send to any one why not write it? Michael will see that it reaches safe hands. I’ll send him in. He’s cooking some food for you, and I’ll tell him to bring paper and pens."