Kaid's face turned black. David had bruised an open wound.

"What is my life to thee--what is thy work to me?"

"Thy life is dear to Egypt, Effendina," urged David soothingly, "and my
labour for Egypt has been pleasant in thine eyes till now."

"Egypt cannot be saved against her will," was the moody response. "What
has come of the Western hand upon the Eastern plough?" His face grew
blacker; his heart was feeding on itself.

"Thou, the friend of Egypt, hast come of it, Effendina."

"Harrik was right, Harrik was right," Kaid answered, with stubborn gloom
and anger. "Better to die in our own way, if we must die, than live in
the way of another. Thou wouldst make of Egypt another England; thou
wouldst civilise the Soudan--bismillah, it is folly!"

"That is not the way Mehemet Ali thought, nor Ibrahim. Nor dost thou
think so, Effendina," David answered gravely. "A dark spirit is on thee.
Wouldst thou have me understand that what we have done together, thou and
I, was ill done, that the old bad days were better?"

"Go back to thine own land," was the surly answer. "Nation after nation
ravaged Egypt, sowed their legions here, but the Egyptian has lived them
down. The faces of the fellaheen are the faces of Thotmes and Seti. Go
back. Egypt will travel her own path. We are of the East; we are
Muslim. What is right to you is wrong to us. Ye would make us over--
give us cotton beds and wooden floors and fine flour of the mill, and
cleanse the cholera-hut with disinfectants, but are these things all?