Mustapha Kali, almost naked, and supported by a stolid Soudanese, stood
before the three. He was pallid, his hands and brow were dripping sweat,
and there was a look of death in his eyes.

"I have cholera, effendi!" he cried. "Take me to Abdallah to die, that
I may be buried with my people and from mine own house."

"Is it not poison?" asked Fielding grimly, yet seeing now a ray of hope
in the sickening business.

"It is cholera, effendi. Take me home to die."

"Very well. Tell the people so, and I will take you home, and I will
bury you with your fathers," said Fielding.

Mustapha Kali turned slowly. "I am sick of cholera," he said as loudly
as he could to the awe-stricken crowd. "May God not cool my resting-
place if it be not so!"

"Tell the people to go to their homes and obey us," said Dicky, putting
away his pistol.

"These be good men, I have seen with mine own eyes," said Mustapha
hoarsely to the crowd. "It is for your good they do all. Have I not
seen? Let God fill both my hands with dust if it be not so! God hath
stricken me, and behold I give myself into the hands of the Inglesi, for
I believe!"

He would have fallen to the ground, but Dicky and the Soudanese caught
him and carried him down to the bank, while the crowd scuttled from the