Donovan Pasha and Some People of Egypt | Page 5

the hospital, where goat's milk had been laid on
for this especial day, smirked gently through the bazaar above his
Parisian waistcoat.
But Fielding, as he rode on Selamlik Pasha's gorgeous black donkey
from Assiout, with its crimson trappings, knew what proportion of
improvement this "hankypanky," as Dicky called it, bore to the
condition of things at the last inspection. He had spoken little all day,
and Dicky had noticed that his eye was constantly turning here and
there, as though looking for an unwelcome something or somebody.
At last the thing was over, and they were just crossing the canal, the old
Bahr-el-Yusef, which cuts the town in twain as the river Abana does

Damascus, when Dicky saw nearing them a heavily-laden boat, a cross
between a Thames house-boat and an Italian gondola, being drawn by
one poor raw-bone--raw-bone in truth, for there was on each shoulder a
round red place, made raw by the unsheathed ropes used as harness.
The beast's sides were scraped as a tree is barked, and the hind quarters
gored as though by a harrow. Dicky was riding with the mamour of the
district, Fielding was a distance behind with Trousers and the Mudir.
Dicky pulled up his donkey, got off and ran towards the horse, pale
with fury; for he loved animals better than men, and had wasted his
strength beating donkey-boys with the sticks they used on their victims.
The boat had now reached a point opposite the mudirieh, its
stopping-place; and the raw- bone, reeking with sweat and blood, stood
still and trembled, its knees shaking with the strain just taken off them,
its head sunk nearly to the ground.
Dicky had hardly reached the spot when a figure came running to the
poor waler with a quick stumbling motion. Dicky drew back in wonder,
for never had he seen eyes so painful as these that glanced from the
tortured beast to himself--staring, bulbous, bloodshot, hunted eyes; but
they were blue, a sickly, faded blue; and they were English! Dicky's
hand was, on his pistol, for his first impulse had been to shoot the
rawbone; but it dropped away in sheer astonishment at the sight of this
strange figure in threadbare dirty clothes and riding-breeches made by
shearing the legs of a long pair--cut with an unsteady hand, for the
edges were jagged and uneven, and the man's bare leg showed above
the cast-off putties of a policeman. The coat was an old khaki jacket of
a Gippy soldier, and, being scant of buttons, doubtful linen showed
beneath. Above the hook- nose, once aristocratic, now vulture-like and
shrunken like that of Rameses in his glass case at Ghizeh, was a
tarboosh tilting forward over the eyes, nearly covering the forehead.
The figure must have been very tall once, but it was stooped now,
though the height was still well above medium. Hunted, haunted,
ravaged and lost, was the face, and the long grey moustache, covering
the chin almost, seemed to cover an immeasurable depravity.
Dicky took it all in at a glance, and wondered with a bitter wonder; for
this was an Englishman, and behind him and around him, though not

very near him, were Arabs, Soudanese, and Fellaheen, with sneering
yet apprehensive faces.
As Dicky's hand dropped away from his pistol, the other shot out
trembling, graceful, eager fingers, the one inexpressibly gentlemanly
thing about him.
"Give it to me--quick!" he said, and he threw a backward glance
towards the approaching group--Fielding, the egregious Pasha, and the
rest.
Dicky did not hesitate; he passed the pistol over. The Lost One took the
pistol, cocked it, and held it to the head of the waler, which feebly
turned to him in recognition.
"Good-bye, old man!" he said, and fired.
The horse dropped, kicked, struggled once or twice, and was gone.
"If you know the right spot, there's hardly a kick," said the Lost One,
and turned to face the Pasha, who had whipped his donkey forward on
them, and sat now livid with rage, before the two. He stood speechless
for a moment, for his anger had forced the fat of his neck up into his
throat.
But Dicky did not notice the Pasha. His eye was fixed on Fielding Bey,
and the eye of Fielding Bey was on the Lost One. All at once Dicky
understood why it was that Fielding Bey had shrunk from coming to
Hasha. Fielding might have offered many reasons, but this figure
before them was the true one. Trouble, pity, anxiety, pride, all were in
Fielding's face. Because the Lost One was an Englishman, and the race
was shamed and injured by this outcast? Not that alone. Fielding had
the natural pride of his race, but this look was personal. He glanced at
the dead horse, at