Donovan Pasha and Some People of Egypt | Page 6

the scarred sides, the raw shoulders, the corrugated
haunches, he saw the pistol in the Lost One's hand, and then, as a
thread of light steals between the black trees of a jungle, a light stole
across Fielding's face for a moment. He saw the Lost One hand the
pistol back to Dicky and fix his debauched blue eyes on the Pasha.

These blue eyes did not once look at Fielding, though they were aware
of his presence.
"Son of a dog!" said the Pasha, and his fat forefinger convulsively
pointed to the horse.
The Lost One's eyes wavered a second, as though their owner had not
the courage to abide the effect of his action, then they quickened to a
point of steadiness, as a lash suddenly knots for a crack in the hand of a
postilion.
"Swine!" said the Lost One into the Pasha's face, and his round
shoulders drew up a little farther, so that he seemed more like a man
among men. His hands fell on his hips as, in his mess, an officer with
no pockets drops his knuckles on his waist-line for a stand-at-ease.
The egregious Selamlik Pasha stood high in favour with the Khedive:
was it not he who had suggested a tax on the earnings of the dancing
girls, the Ghazeeyehs, and did he not himself act as the first
tax-gatherer? Was it not Selamlik Pasha also who whispered into the
ear of the Mouffetish that a birth-tax and a burial-tax should be
instituted? And had he not seen them carried out in the mudiriehs under
his own supervision? Had he not himself made the Fellaheen pay thrice
over for water for their onion-fields? Had he not flogged an Arab to
death with his own hand, the day before Fielding's and Dicky's arrival,
and had he not tried to get this same Arab's daughter into his
harem--this Selamlik Pasha!
The voice of the Lost One suddenly rose shrill and excited, and he
shouted at the Pasha. "Swine! swine! swine! . . . Kill your slaves with a
kourbash if you like, but a bullet's the thing for a waler!--Swine of a
leper!"
The whole frame of the Lost One was still, but the voice was shaking,
querulous, half hysterical; the eyes were lighted with a terrible
excitement, the lips under the grey moustache twitched; the nervous
slipshod dignity of carriage was in curious contrast to the disordered
patchwork dress.

The trouble on Fielding's face glimmered with a little ray of hope now.
Dicky came over to him, and was about to speak, but a motion of
Fielding's hand stopped him. The hand said: "Let them fight it out."
In a paroxysm of passion Selamlik Pasha called two Abyssinian slaves
standing behind. "This brother of a toad to prison!" he said.
The Lost One's eyes sought Dicky like a flash. Without a word, and as
quick as the tick of a clock, Dicky tossed over his pistol to the Lost One,
who caught it smoothly, turned it in his hand, and levelled it at the
Abyssinians.
"No more of this damned nonsense, Pasha," said Fielding suddenly.
"He doesn't put a high price on his life, and you do on yours. I'd be
careful!"
"Steady, Trousers!" said Dicky in a soft voice, and smiled his girlish
smile.
Selamlik Pasha stared for a moment in black anger, then stuttered forth:
"Will you speak for a dog of a slave that his own country vomits out?"
"Your mother was a slave of Darfur, Pasha," answered Fielding, in a
low voice; "your father lost his life stealing slaves. Let's have no airs
and graces."
Dicky's eyes had been fixed on the Lost One, and his voice now said in
its quaint treble: "Don't get into a perspiration. He's from where we get
our bad manners, and he messes with us to-night, Pasha."
The effect of these words was curious. Fielding's face was a blank
surprise, and his mouth opened to say no, but he caught Dicky's look
and the word was not uttered. The Pasha's face showed curious
incredulity; under the pallor of the Lost One's a purplish flush crept,
stayed a moment, then faded away, and left it paler than before.
"We've no more business, I think, Pasha," said Fielding brusquely, and
turned his donkey towards the river. The Pasha salaamed without a

word, his Abyssinian slaves helped him on his great white donkey, and
he trotted away towards the palace, the trousers flapping about his huge
legs. The Lost One stood fingering the revolver. Presently he looked up
at Dicky, and, standing still, held out the pistol.
"Better keep it," said Dicky; "I'll give you some peas for it to-night.
Speak to the poor devil, Fielding," he added quickly, in a low tone.
Fielding turned in his saddle.