open it again. Then in anger the Prince would have given her to his
bowab at the gates, or to the Nile, after the manner of a Turk or a
Persian tyrant--may God purge him of his loathsomeness . . . !"

He paused, as though choking with passion and grief, and waved a hand
over the crowd in agitated command.

"Here's the old sore open at last--which way now?" said Dicky in a
whisper. "It's the toss of a penny where he'll pull up. As I thought
. . . 'Sh!" he added as Renshaw was about to speak.

Abdalla continued. "Then did I stretch forth my hand, and, because I
loved her, a slave with the freedom of God in her soul and on her face,
I said, 'Come with me,' and behold! she came, without a word, for our
souls spake to each other, as it was in the olden world, ere the hearts
of men were darkened. I, an Egyptian of a despised and down-trodden
land, where all men save the rich are slaves, and the rich go in the
fear of their lives; she, a woman from afar, of that ancient tribe who
conquered Egypt long ago--we went forth from the palace alone and
penniless. He, the Prince, dared not follow to do me harm, for my
father's father ye knew, and my father ye knew, and me ye knew since I
came into the world, and in all that we had ye shared while yet we had to
give; yea, and he feared ye. We lived among ye, poor as ye are poor, yet
rich for that Egypt was no poorer because of us." He waved his hand as
though to still the storm he was raising. . . . "If ye call aloud, I
will drive ye from this place of peace, this garden of her who was called
Light from the Light. It hath been so until yesterday, when God stooped
and drew the veil from her face, and she dropped the garment of life and
fled from the world. . . . Go, go hence," he added, his voice thick
with sorrow. "But ere ye go, answer me, as ye have souls that desire God