where thousands of narghilehs and cigarettes made little smoky clouds
that floated around white turbans and dark faces. "When they need me,
I will speak; when they cry to me, I will unsheathe the sword of Ebn
Mahmoud, who fought with Mahomet Ali and saved the land from the Turk."

Renshaw watched the game with an eagerness unnoticeable in his manner.
He saw how difficult was the task before Dicky. He saw an Oriental
conscious of his power, whose heart was bitter, and whose soul, in
its solitude, revolted and longed for action. It was not moved by a pure
patriotism, but what it was moved by served. That dangerous temper,
which would have let Dicky, whom he called friend, and himself go down
under the naboots of the funeral multitude, with a "Malaish" on his
tongue, was now in leash, ready to spring forth in the inspired hour;
and the justification need not be a great one. Some slight incident
might set him at the head of a rabble which would sweep Cairo like a
storm. Yet Renshaw saw, too, that once immersed in the work his mind
determined on, the Egyptian would go forward with relentless force. In
the excitement of the moment it seemed to him that Egypt was hanging in
the balance.

Dicky was eating sweetmeats like a girl. He selected them with great
care. Suddenly Abdalla touched his hand. "Speak on. Let all thy
thoughts be open--stay not to choose, as thou dost with the sweetmeats.
I will choose: do thou offer without fear. I would not listen to Ismail;
to thee I am but as a waled to bear thy shoes in my hand."

Dicky said nothing for a moment, but appeared to enjoy the comfit he
was eating. He rolled it over his tongue, and his eyes dwelt with a
remarkable simplicity and childlike friendliness on Abdalla. It was as
though there was really nothing vital at stake. . . . Yet he was