Chapter X: Part 10

Under this pretext Hassan led Shèitan and his own horse near to the prisoner: at the distance of only a few yards a groom was holding a horse which, from its appearance and trappings, seemed to be that of the captain.

“Now is the moment,” whispered Hassan to Abou-Hashem; “be ready to spring on that horse.”

As he spoke he raised his knife as if about to strike, at the same time continuing to threaten and abuse Abou-Hashem in a loud voice, while the Turks were laughing at the anger of Hassan and the assumed terror of the captive, who called out “Aman! aman!” (Mercy!) With one swift stroke of his knife he divided the cords with which he was pinioned, and, springing aside, knocked down the unsuspecting _sàis_ who held the captain’s horse. No sooner done than Abou-Hashem was in the saddle; Hassan and Abd-hoo jumped on their horses, and in a second the freebooters were at full speed on their way to the desert. Shots were fired at them from pistols and carabines, some of which took effect, but not enough to stop their headlong course.

Hassan received a ball in the arm and another in the side, but he succeeded in his daring attempt. A few of the best mounted of the Turks who were able to keep the fugitives in sight found themselves, after a gallop of several leagues, in sight of Hassan’s band, who received their chief and his rescued lieutenant with shouts of triumph; while the troopers, seeing that all chance of recapturing them was hopeless, wheeled their wearied horses towards Girgeh, glad to escape themselves unpursued.

One other instance of our hero’s humorous audacity which reached the Viceroy’s ears during that summer, and which excited his mirth almost as much as his anger, deserves to be recorded.

His Highness had collected a body of troops in a camp near the town of Esneh, in Upper Egypt, who were undergoing drill and training for service against the refractory tribes in the Soudan.

Hassan had received intelligence from one of his spies that a large sum of money had just been transmitted to Esneh for the payment of these troops, and was in the keeping of a certain Moktar Effendi, who resided in a village a few miles distant from the encampment, and who on account of this charge was dignified in the neighbourhood by the title of Defterdar.

Of this sum Hassan resolved to endeavour to obtain possession by stratagem, and he set about it with the confident coolness which characterised all his proceedings. Leaving the greater part of his band in the desert, at a considerable distance from the village, he dressed himself in his former _khaznadâr_ uniform, and six or eight of the most resolute and best mounted of his followers in dresses becoming the attendants of a man in authority, gathered from the spoils of plundered caravans: he took with him also a firman bearing the seal of Mohammed Ali, which had been obtained by similar means. This firman stated in general terms that Latif-Aga, the bearer, was on duty in Upper Egypt on Government service, and ordered the governors of towns and provinces to afford him all necessary assistance.

Armed with this instrument, and with others of a more deadly kind in case of necessity, Hassan proceeded leisurely about midday to the village, having desired his followers to observe the strictest gravity and decorum in their demeanour, and having, as usual, invested the ready-witted and faithful Abd-hoo with the office of pipe-bearer, while Abou-Hamedi was to be left in charge of the horses and of the attendants, who were not expected to accompany their chief to the presence of the Defterdar.

Hassan had no difficulty in finding the residence of that well-known personage, and having announced himself as being charged with an important message from the Viceroy, was immediately ushered into the room where sat the Defterdar.

Moktar Effendi was a fat, pursy little man, and, though extremely timid, puffed up with a high sense of his own local importance. Hassan, as is the custom in the East, began the conversation with all sorts of commonplace observations, which he took care to interlard with fulsome compliments gratifying to the vanity of his host; and after two pipes and cups of coffee had been with due ceremony discussed, he prepared to enter upon the business with which he was supposed to be intrusted. But having observed a small room at the side, which seemed better suited to his purpose than the reception-room, which commanded a view of the court below, he proposed in a confidential tone that they should retire thither for a conference, which he said it was necessary that their attendants should not overhear.

To this proposal the Defterdar, who had read the firman presented to him by Hassan, made no objection, and they retired thither. No sooner were they seated than our hero, who had taken care to place himself between his host and the door, proceeded to inform him that he had come to relieve him of the charge of the money which had been transmitted to him for the payment of the troops. The astonished Defterdar said in a hesitating tone that, although he had no doubt of the authority under which his guest was acting, he could not transfer such a charge without direct instructions from the Viceroy.

“I will show you the authority under which I act,” said our hero in the same polite and affable tone which he had hitherto used; and as he spoke he threw open his outer pelisse, and drawing a pistol from his belt, presented it within two feet of the Defterdar’s forehead, who observed with horror another pistol and a dagger suspended from the same formidable belt. “Excellent Defterdar,” he continued, “I do not wish to expose you to any unnecessary alarm or danger, but it is necessary for your safety that you give up to me the money in question. I am not Latif-Aga, but Hassan, the Child of the Pyramid, of whom you have perhaps heard, and who, as you may know, am not to be trifled with.”

At the sound of that dreaded name, and at the sight of the pistol still pointed at his face, the unfortunate Defterdar grew speechless with affright; a cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead, and his tongue clove to his palate.

“For the love of Allah,” he gasped, “do not murder me!”

“I have no intention of hurting you,” said Hassan, “if you only do as I bid you without delay; but I warn you that if you utter a sound to compromise my safety you are a dead man. My pipe-bearer, at your outer door, and all my attendants below, are armed as I am, and we are strong enough, if it be requisite, to destroy you and all your household. But though I am not ‘Latif’ by name, I desire to be so in my conduct;[104] therefore if you are quiet and reasonable you have nothing to fear. You will please now to call whichever of your confidential servants has the care of this money, and tell him to bring it here and deliver it to me, as I am charged to convey it to the commanding officer at the camp. If in giving him this order you endeavour to betray me by word or sign, you die where you sit, and your servant will be killed by my pipe-bearer without.”

The unhappy Defterdar, after giving vent to sundry suppressed groans, in which “Allah!” “Oh my misfortune!” “Mercy and destiny,” were feebly uttered, and seeing no hope of saving his life excepting in implicit obedience to the orders of his formidable guest, clapped his hands, and on the entrance of his servant desired him forthwith to bring the money which Latif-Aga was charged by the Viceroy to convey to the camp.

The servant noticed the evident tremor and perturbation under which his master spoke, but like a true Oriental he attributed it to regret at losing so fair an opportunity of appropriating a certain portion of the money to his own advantage by cheating the soldiers in its distribution, and he soon reappeared, bearing with him three or four bags of gold, and one of larger dimensions containing Austrian dollars.

“Is the whole sum here?” said Hassan in a stern voice. “Bring me the letter that accompanied the money, and then count it before me, that I may see whether the amounts tally.”

His orders having been obeyed, the servant counted the money before him, which (wonderful to relate of Egypt) agreed precisely with the letter of advice.

“You are a faithful servant,” said Hassan, “and although I cannot touch this money which belongs to others, here is a bakshish for yourself.” So saying, he threw him two or three pieces of gold from his own purse, adding, “Send hither my pipe-bearer and _mirakhor_ [chief groom], that they may take charge of this money; and bring me a _dooàyeh_ [oriental case containing pens and ink] and some paper, that I may give your master a receipt in due form.”

Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo having been summoned and taken charge of their trust with a gravity and deportment suited to their assumed characters, our hero wrote the receipt in a bold hand, and in the following terms:—

“I, Hassan, Child of the Pyramid, hereby acknowledge that I have received from Moktar Effendi the sum of one hundred and twenty purses [£600] belonging to the Egyptian Government, and that it is my intention to repay the same when it suits my convenience. I further add that the said Moktar Effendi only delivered me this money when under fear of his life, and when he had no means of resisting the force which I had at hand: he should therefore be held exempt from blame by his humane and just lord, Mohammed Ali.”

Having delivered this receipt to the still bewildered Effendi, Hassan said to him, “My good friend, now that our business is terminated, we will have one more pipe of fellowship before we part; but remember that my eye is upon you.”

The pipe having been duly smoked and the attendants dismissed, Hassan addressed his terrified host—

“Effendi, the most disagreeable part of my duty remains to be performed, as I would fain have parted from you with politeness and friendship; but as your duty would require that you should alarm all the village as soon as my foot is in the stirrup, it is necessary for my safety and for yours that I should secure your quietude: your servants will soon come to release you, but for a while it is requisite that you should be bound.” So saying, he produced a cord, which he had brought for the purpose, and having bound his terror-stricken host hand and foot, and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth to prevent his calling out, he left the room, and leisurely descending the stairs, mounted his horse, giving pieces of silver to the servants at the door with a liberality worthy of a Bey or Pasha.

He and his party proceeded slowly on the road towards the soldiers’ encampment until they were out of sight of the village, when they suddenly turned off towards the desert, and after an hour’s gallop rejoined the remainder of the band. On the following morning at daylight they were eighty miles distant from the scene of this feat.

It is needless to portray the astonishment of Moktar Effendi’s servants when they found their master bound and gagged in a corner of his room, grunting and sputtering in his vain endeavours to call for help. When they released his tongue and his limbs, his first act was to ask in a trembling voice, “Is he gone?”

“Who?” they replied; “his Excellency the Bey, your visitor?—yes, he is gone.”

“The Bey!” muttered Moktar Effendi, whose courage was now partially restored. “Know ye not, sons of dogs and asses that ye are, that the scoundrel was no Bey, but Hassan Ebn-el-Heràm, the outlaw chief, who has plundered me and laughed at my beard. Allah! Allah! what dust has fallen on my head—what dirt have I eaten! There lies his cursed receipt for the money. How can I send it to Mohammed Ali? he will defile the graves of my forefathers. Alas! alas! there is no power nor trust save in Allah.”

Such were the terms in which the unhappy Defterdar bewailed his fate, and prepared to enclose to the Viceroy a full report of his misfortune, together with the receipt left by the audacious outlaw. Mohammed Ali, in one of those moods of clemency and generosity which were not unfrequent with him, forgave the poor Defterdar, and replaced the plundered money from his own purse, saying, “Hassan shall one day fulfil his promise of repayment.”

* * * * *

The cool breezes of November had returned, and the Thorpe party were again at Cairo, on their way to Thebes, where they proposed to pass the winter. During the few days that they spent in the capital before prosecuting their voyage, they visited the various objects of interest which they had not found time to see during their former stay. One scene, however, which they witnessed was so illustrative of the superstition of the “Cairians,” or inhabitants of Cairo, that it is not unworthy of notice.

Returning one day from an excursion to the Mokattan hills, they saw an immense crowd of persons, of all ages and conditions, on horses, mules, donkeys, and on foot, flocking to a spot called Sabaâ Benât (the seven daughters), on the edge of the desert. Piercing through the outskirts of this mixed assemblage, they were surprised to see beys, effendis, merchants, priests, and beggars all divested of their outer garments and rolling themselves with frantic energy and gesticulation in the sand.

On inquiring through Demetri what was the meaning of this strange ceremonial, they learnt that it was a miracle wrought through the instrumentality of a Moghrebi saint (such as in Algeria are termed Marabouts), who had been warned in a religious trance that the sand in this spot possessed a healing virtue, and that all who rolled themselves therein should be immediately cured of any malady.

News of this miracle had spread through the city, and for several days all who were, or imagined themselves, under the influence of any disease hastened to avail themselves of the holy panacea.

In some instances the pious fraud worked out its own verification. One fat bey, whose only ailment was plethora, brought on by gluttony, actually rolled himself so energetically and effectually that he perspired and vomited under the unwonted exertion. He returned home so much relieved that he spread the fame of the miraculous spot throughout all the members of the divan, and thus the superstition of the fanatic Arabs was communicated to the grave and influential portion of the Turkish community.

Mr Thorpe and his party made their way through this motley crowd with no little difficulty, and they found the whole road from the sacred spot to the city dusty and thronged as that from London to Epsom on a Derby day.[105]

“How can they believe,” said Mr Thorpe to Demetri, “that by rolling in that sand they can cure all diseases? Have the saints and dervishes so much power over the people’s belief?”

“Saints and dervishes,” said Demetri, “can make them believe that the Nile comes from the moon, or that the Pyramids were built of cheeses made from the milk of Pharaoh’s cows. But that is nothing; priests can do as much in my country. If you want to see what the Cairians can swallow, you should go to that dome, under which you will find a jackass daily fed on the best of provender at the public expense, and almost worshipped by the people.”

As he spoke he pointed to a cupola erected over the tomb of a saint or sheik, in the interior of which a donkey was contentedly chewing his straw and beans, totally unconscious of the religious honours paid to him.

“How came the donkey to obtain this great measure of respect?” inquired Mr Thorpe.

“He belonged,” replied Demetri, “to a builder who was engaged in repairing some tombs in the neighbourhood: this donkey had been one of a score employed in carrying bricks and mortar. It would seem that he had contrived to shake off his load, and had gone for shelter into that half-ruined sheik’s tomb: meanwhile his owner, with the other donkeys, had been suddenly called off to do some building-work at a distance for the Viceroy.

“That night it appears that a _fikih_ [priest] of some celebrity in the town had a dream, warning him that if he wished his prayers to be heard he must go to the sheik’s tomb in question and pay honour to whomsoever he might find under its roof. Hastening thither in the morning, he found it tenanted by a donkey, to which, in order to obey the warning he had received, he made an offering of some beans and barley. Having communicated his dream to his religious brethren, it was soon spread all over the town. Pious Mussulmans flocked thither to pray for their sick relatives, and the long-eared recluse tasted of the sweets of idleness, plenty, and all the other ingredients in the cup of donkey-happiness.”[106]

“Why, Demetri,” said Mr Thorpe, laughing, “you have finished your tale in a style worthy of the ‘Arabian Nights.’”

“It is no wonder,” replied the Greek; “I hear so many of those story-narrators at the Arab cafés in the town that I borrow their style almost without knowing it.”

“Mohammed Ali well knows,” continued the Greek, “how to take advantage of this popular reverence for the tombs of sheiks. A short time ago one stood close to a garden of his, and the visitors who flocked to it disturbing his privacy, he determined to remove it in a manner that should offer no offence to the reputation of the sheik or the fanaticism of the people.

“Collecting in secret a large body of labourers from one of his distant villages, he caused them in the course of a single night to destroy the tomb and to rebuild it at a spot about two miles distant, in the same form and of the same materials, after which they were sent back to their own village as secretly as they had been summoned.

“On the following day all Cairo was full of the new miracle—Sheik-el-Ghazi had transported his own tomb two miles in the course of the night. Thousands flocked to the miraculous shrine, which is to this day an object of the deepest reverence in the neighbourhood.”[107]

The next day Mr Thorpe and his party went to pay a visit to Delì Pasha previous to their departure for Upper Egypt. Emily and her mother were conducted to the harem, where, after a brief and uninteresting visit to the senior Khanum, they went to the apartment occupied by Amina.

Both were struck by the change which a year had wrought in her appearance. She was not less lovely than before, but her bright and mirthful glance had given place to a look of saddened tenderness and a general expression of melancholy.

Neither did it escape Amina’s observation that Emily looked more pale than on her former visit; and when her two guests were seated, one on each side of her, with the wife of one of the Italian doctors, who officiated as interpreter, she began to inquire after Emily’s health, and how and where she had passed the summer.

These inquiries having been replied to, and the customary compliments exchanged while they sipped their coffee from lilliputian cups enclosed in _finjâns_ of gold filigree studded with diamonds, the conversation assumed a more general turn; for Amina soon found that neither of her guests could bear the pipe, although the tobacco was of the mildest fragrance and the jewelled amber mouthpieces were such as might tempt the lips of a smoke-abominating admiral.

In the course of the conversation Mrs Thorpe observed—

“How sad it is that young Hassan, who came up with us in the dahabiah last year, and who seemed so gentle and polite, should now be a ferocious captain of outlaws and banditti! I hear that he has become a terror to the whole country.” At these words a burning blush mantled over Amina’s neck and crimsoned her cheek up to the temples.

“The subject is painful,” she said, in a tone in which anger was discernible through embarrassment. “You forget, madam, that he risked his life to save mine, and was afterwards driven from our roof by an act of cruelty never sanctioned by my father. He is now once more a Bedouin in his native desert, and an English lady should know that Bedouins, although wild and warlike in their lives, are not banditti.”

Mrs Thorpe saw by the hurried accent and kindling glance of the Turkish maiden that she had ventured on dangerous ground, and she and her daughter rose to take leave, and rejoined their dahabiah on the Nile. They passed Siout and Keneh, and were already within a day of Thebes. Mr Thorpe held in his hand a volume of Diodorus Siculus, but his eye wandered often from its pages and rested on Emily’s countenance, where he gladly traced the symptoms of improving health which the climate had produced.

Suddenly were heard loud cries for “help” and “mercy” from the boatmen on the shore who had been employed in slowly towing the heavy dahabiahs from the bank against an adverse wind and current. Immediately above the path was a dense copse of low brushwood, from which twenty or twenty-five men, well armed, sprang upon them, and in an instant they were thrown to the ground and secured, whilst the steersman, and the few others who remained on board, exclaiming, “It is the band of Hassan Ebn-el-Heràm,” gave themselves up for lost. The dahabiahs having been hauled up to the bank (during which operation loaded carabines were presented at the helmsman to warn him of the consequence of resistance), the freebooters sprang on board, and having bound all the men of the party, they proceeded to ransack the cabins and collect the spoil with a coolness and deliberation which could only be the result of long practice.

“Quick, my men,” shouted Abou-Hashem, for he it was who led the party; “let us collect the spoil and mount for fear of interruption.”

The last package brought out from the cabin contained Mr Thorpe’s writing-desk, and he called to Demetri, who was likewise tied on the deck, to tell them that he would willingly give them his money, but that the desk contained papers of value to him but of no use to them, for which reason he hoped they would leave it. While Demetri was explaining this to Abou-Hashem a crashing noise was heard among the bushes of the copse on the bank, and in a second Hassan, followed by Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo, stood on the deck of the dahabiah. The perspiration that streamed from his face, and the crimsoned foam that stained the lower border of his _serwal_,[108] betokened the furious speed at which he had ridden; the veins on his forehead were swelled, and there was a dangerous fire in his eye, which his habitual self-command was unable at the moment to quell.

“Allah have mercy upon us!” groaned the Arab boatmen, recognising at once by his haughty look and towering stature the terrible outlaw of whose predatory feats they had heard so much; “we are all dead men now.”

“Mashallah! what an eye!” muttered another, who had been on hunting expeditions in Soudan; “it is like that of a lion who has been struck by a javelin.”

The freebooters dropped the half-raised packets of booty and listened in sulky silence as, addressing Abou-Hashem, who stood within a few paces of him, Hassan said—

“How have you dared to disobey my orders? Did I not tell you last night when our spy reported and described these dahabiahs that they belonged to Franghis who were my friends, whose bread and salt I had eaten, and that I would not permit them to be injured?”

“And why are we to be cheated of our spoil?” replied Abou-Hashem, furious at being called upon to resign so rich a booty; “why are we to be robbed of the fruit of our risks and toil by your sympathy with these unbelieving dogs? Am I not right, comrades?” said he, looking round at the armed men grouped behind him. “We will no longer submit to this tyranny; our arms shall keep what our arms have won.” A murmur of applause from his brother-plunderers followed this speech.

“Hark ye, men,” said Hassan in a voice which seemed to gather stern composure as the danger grew more imminent. “I am your chief, freely elected by yourselves, and, by Allah! while I live amongst you I will be obeyed. Not a parcel of booty, not a morsel of bread, shall ye plunder from these boats.”

“Take, then, example from me,” shouted Abou-Hashem to the freebooters behind him; and as he spoke he drew a pistol from his belt to level it at his leader’s breast. But Hassan’s eye had been upon him, and quick as thought one blow from the mace sent the pistol high into the air, and a second stretched Abou-Hashem senseless on the deck.

“Take example from him,” said Hassan to the freebooters in a tone of bitter scorn; “it is a deed worthy of the warriors of the desert to murder their chief and to plunder those whose bread he has eaten.” Observing symptoms of hesitation in the fierce and lawless band, he continued, “Return to your duty, and I may yet forgive you: if you refuse, the consequences be on your own heads.”

With a pistol in each hand he calmly awaited the result of the conference which they held in a few brief and broken sentences. During this time Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo stood beside their leader, pistol in hand, and ready to spend the last drop of their blood in saving or avenging him.

Hassan took advantage of the brief pause to say to Emily, who still stood trembling near her bound father, “Sit down, sit down, lady, beside your father; pistol-balls may be flying in a moment, and a stray one might strike you. It is only my life now that they seek; and if I fall, tell them in Cairo that Hassan’s death redeemed the last year of his life.”

Having uttered these words in the low and gentle tone so well preserved in Emily’s remembrance, he once more addressed the still hesitating mutineers.

“Quick, men! declare your choice—obedience or death. There is no path between the two.” None spoke, nor dared to meet the eye of his chief. “It is enough, my men; I see that you are ashamed, and I may yet forgive this morning’s work. Abd-hoo, unbind the Franghi bey. Abou-Hamedi, shoot the first man dead who moves an arm to interrupt him.”

Whilst this order was being obeyed, and Abd-hoo was cutting the cords by which Mr Thorpe had been bound, Hassan stood silently but keenly scanning the countenances of the mutineers.

“What, my men,” he called aloud, “still hesitating to repair a fault into which you were led by this headstrong fool!” pointing to the motionless form of Abou-Hashem. “Since I have been your chief have I been last in the attack or first in the flight? Have I been miserly in spending with you my blood or my money?” A murmur of “Never” broke from the group. “Why, then, when I have so often led you to plunder and to victory, did you desire to cover my head with ashes, my name with infamy? You did not know, what Abou-Hashem knew, that these dahabiahs belonged to my friends—that I had eaten from their table and shared their salt! When all the provinces of Egypt are open to our swift horses and our sharpened steel, could you, brave warriors of the desert, find no more honourable foray than to attack defenceless strangers, and those, too, the friends of your leader? If such be your mind, I know you no more. Go and choose another leader from among thieves and _moharrabin_,[109] for Hassan will no longer be your chief.”

“We never knew that these Franghis were your friends, or that you had eaten their salt,” said one, who undertook to be spokesman for the rest.

“I thought so,” replied Hassan; “but he, Abou-Hashem, knew it well. He deceived you, and he has paid the penalty. Come hither, men, and remove him to yonder _sant_-tree[110] on the bank: perhaps he yet lives, and may be wiser hereafter. Remember that not a man is to remove the value of one _para_ from these boats. I have sworn it, and, Wallah! if I live I will keep my oath.”

Like hounds chidden by a huntsman, the subdued freebooters mechanically obeyed.

Whilst they were employed in removing their stunned and still senseless lieutenant, Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo busied themselves, by Hassan’s order, in cutting the bonds of the captives, all of whom, Mr Thorpe included, came to shake hands with Hassan and to thank him for his generous interposition on their behalf, and would not listen to his expression of deep regret that they should have been exposed to so much alarm and inconvenience by his followers. But the victory had been won, for they slowly left the dahabiahs without attempting to remove one of the parcels of plunder which they had collected on the deck.

Mr Thorpe, after listening with grave attention to a few words whispered in his ear by Emily, said to Hassan—

“My brave young friend, we owe all we have on board, perhaps even our lives, to you, and we cannot bear that you should again incur the risk of living among those lawless and bloodthirsty men: they will owe you a spite for depriving them of their spoil, and perhaps when you are off your guard will assassinate you.”

“Alas! sir, you are in error,” said Hassan, in a voice whose melancholy and soft cadence contrasted strangely with the stern, deep tones in which he had lately addressed his followers. “You owe me nothing but forgiveness; for were it not for me, this lawless band might not have existed, and you might have pursued your journey without this vexatious incident. My lot is cast among them for the present; least of all could I leave them now, when my doing so would be attributed to fear. We all of us owe a life to destiny, and if a sword or bullet put an end to mine, where is the father or mother, sister or child, to shed a tear on the tomb of Hassan. No; these men must know and feel that I am their master and fear them not! The day will come, Inshallah! before long when I can part with them without regret or shame. May your journey be prosperous and your days prolonged.”

As he said these words he bade them adieu, and in the Franghi fashion shook hands with all the Europeans, without distinction of rank.

“Hassan,” said Mr Thorpe, taking him aside and speaking in a low voice, “before we left Cairo my wife and Emily paid a visit to the harem of Delì Pasha: they saw his daughter, and I must tell you that your present mode of life makes them both most unhappy.” Hassan averted his face and spoke not. Mr Thorpe continued, “Yes, Hassan, it makes every one unhappy who has an interest in your welfare. It is a career in which you are exposed every day to lose your own life, or to take that of others, without honour or glory. Be persuaded to abandon it ere it is too late.”

Mastering his emotions by a strong effort, Hassan replied—

“You know how I was driven from society by injustice. I feel that the advice which you give is kindly meant, and I thank you for it; but we who are children of the desert attach no dishonour to the life that I now lead: it is such as our fathers have led before us for centuries.”

“But you are not in the desert, Hassan,” said Mr Thorpe gently; “those to whom your band is a terror are merchants, villagers, and travellers. Even now it was only at the risk of your life that you saved us and our property from the ferocity of those who call you chief. Can you wonder that the daughter of Delì Pasha should weep when your name is mentioned?”

“Did she weep? when and where?” said Hassan.

“Yes; she wept in my daughter’s arms. She could not speak, but her altered appearance shows how much she has suffered.”

“Allah! Allah!” said Hassan, hiding his face for a moment in his hands; then, as if ashamed of his emotion, he wrung Mr Thorpe’s hand with an energy that nearly dislocated the worthy antiquary’s fingers, and hastily uttering, “Farewell, sir; I will not forget what you have said,” he leapt ashore, followed by Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo, and rejoined his band beyond the copse whence they had attacked the dahabiah.

For many days the life of Abou-Hashem was despaired of, and even when by slow degrees he recovered somewhat of his strength, and was able to sit on horseback, his senses seemed wavering and unsettled. Many amongst the band wore a sulky and dissatisfied air, and Hassan saw that on the first favourable opportunity they were not unlikely to desert or betray him. With the bold frankness which formed the leading feature of his character, he resolved to come to an open explanation with them, and then to resign the office which they had conferred on him. Having called them all together, he said—

“My men, I see that you are still vexed at my having disappointed you of the spoil of those dahabiahs. As for the blow which I gave to Abou-Hashem, I speak not of it: you saw that he attempted to take my life, and I defended it. How much, think you, would you have obtained had I permitted you to plunder those Franks?”

“We might have divided perhaps twenty purses [£100], besides the Franghi clothes, which were indeed of little value to us,” replied one fellow, in a sulky tone.

“How much have you belonging to me?” said Hassan to Abou-Hamedi, who had charge of that portion of the spoil which had fallen to his share as leader.

“I have forty purses,” replied Abou-Hamedi, after examining the contents of a bag which he carried in his belt.

“Here then, my comrades, are thirty purses,” said Hassan, again addressing the freebooters; “take them and divide them among you: they will compensate for your disappointment. Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo, you have both been true and faithful to me; here are five purses for each of you. Now I resign my command, and leave you to follow your own counsel and your own path. We part as friends, I hope?”

“Mashallah! your hand is always open,” shouted the freebooters, ashamed of their late conduct. “Stay with us, and be still our leader; we will never disobey you again.”

“It cannot be,” said Hassan; “my destiny compels me to go to Cairo, where certain death would await you all, and where it is not unlikely to await me also: but what is written must come to pass—there is neither power nor strength but in Allah. Abd-hoo, bring me my horse. Farewell, comrades; may happiness attend your path.”

So saying, he vaulted on the back of Shèitan and rode slowly away in a southerly direction.

It was evident to all the band, from his abstracted air and the grave melancholy of his voice, that something weighed heavily on his spirits, and they noticed also that although he spoke of going to Cairo, the path he had taken went in the direction precisely opposite.

For an hour he rode slowly forward, revolving in his mind the last words addressed to him by Mr Thorpe, when, hearing behind him the sound of horses’ feet, he turned and found he was followed by Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo, the latter driving a mule laden with saddle-bags containing Hassan’s clothes and spare arms.

“What is this?” said Hassan; “did I not bid you farewell?”

“And did you think,” said Abou-Hamedi, in a tone in which indignation almost mastered his habitual respect for his chief, “that Abd-hoo and I would take your money and leave you thus? What have we done that you should think so meanly of us?”

“Forgive me,” said Hassan, “I have done you wrong; but my heart was heavy, misfortune hangs over me, and I thought it best to meet my fate alone.”

“Be it misfortune, or prison, or death, we will share it with you,” was the exclamation of Abou-Hamedi, echoed by a hearty “Yes, by Allah!” from the faithful black.

“Be it so,” said Hassan, much affected by their devoted attachment; “we will part no more.” So saying, he rode once more forward in the same direction as before; but Abou-Hamedi, who had in gaining his point recovered his former spirits and energy of character, came up to him and said, with a comic gravity—

“Hassan, you told us you were going to Cairo; have you forgotten that the path we are following will take us to Esnah and Assouan?”

“I know it,” he replied; “but before returning to Cairo I wish to see El-Uksor[111] and the wonderful monuments of which I have heard so much. The party of Franks are there, and I must speak to them again before I visit Cairo.”

“There is a governor at El-Uksor; will the Franks not betray us to him?” said Abou-Hamedi doubtingly.

“Never!” replied Hassan with something of his former energy. “Allah has not given them light to dwell in the true faith, but they have hearts open to kindness and friendship.”

We may here mention that the band lately commanded by Hassan, dispirited by the loss of a chief who had been the life and soul of every daring enterprise, and anxious to retain, without molestation from the Egyptian authorities, the considerable booty which they had amassed, were not long in breaking up, some seeking concealment among the Arabs bordering the desert, and the greater number joining a large caravan of pilgrims returning from Mecca to the west by the route of Cosseir and Keneh.

About a week after the occurrence of these events the Thorpe party were assembled at Thebes. Mr Thorpe, accompanied by Müller, was busy in copying hieroglyphic inscriptions. At a little distance from them Emily, seated on a fragment of stone, was sketching the interior of that magnificent temple whose massive proportions and antique beauty excited the admiration of the Romans eighteen centuries ago.

“What a picturesque and appropriate addition to this classic scene!” said Emily, half aloud to herself, as her eye rested upon the figure of a stranger who had just entered the temple from the side, and was looking up, apparently awed and surprised, at its gigantic though harmonious proportions.

He was a large, powerful man, considerably above middle height. His dark eye, sparkling with the fire of vigorous manhood, belied the age which the massive grey beard descending on his breast might seem to indicate, while the folds of his ample turban, the cashmere shawl around his waist, in which were two silver-mounted pistols, and the sword that hung at his side, bespoke at once a man of rank and a soldier.

“Do you know who he is?” said Emily, addressing Demetri.

“Yes, signora,” replied the loquacious interpreter; “though he only arrived here yesterday, I have found out all about him. His name is Dervish Bey, known as Es-Seyaf, or the Swordsman. He was one of the most celebrated warriors in Mohammed Ali’s army of Arabia. He has lately been Governor of Assouan, but is now on his way to Cairo. His boats are gone on and wait for him at Keneh, to which place he travels on horseback attended by two or three mounted followers. They say that with that very sword now at his side he has often cut off the head of an ox at a single blow.”

“I hope he will not cut off any of our heads,” replied Emily, smiling.

“Were he to attempt it, lady, you would not be without a defender,” said a low voice in English immediately behind her. At the sound of that well-known voice the blood rushed to Emily’s temples as she turned and saw Hassan before her.

“I beg pardon for having startled you by my sudden appearance,” said Hassan.

“I was, indeed, surprised at your unexpected appearance,” said Emily, recovering herself; “but you know we are always glad to see you, Hassan. Will you come and speak to my father?” and she led the way to the spot where Mr Thorpe was transferring hieroglyphics to his album.

From him, as well as from Müller, Hassan received a friendly welcome, and in a brief conversation which ensued our hero informed them that he had finally quitted his roving life and his lawless band. Whilst they were still conversing, Dervish Bey approached the party, and observing that Hassan spoke to them in their own language, saluted him, adding, “Will you ask the Frank ladies whether one of them has lost a ring?”

Hassan having repeated the question, Emily, looking at her hand, observed that in the surprise which his sudden appearance had occasioned a ring had dropped from her finger. “Yes,” she replied, “I see that I have lost my small emerald ring.”

“I have had the good fortune to find it,” said Dervish Bey, “near to the spot where the Khanum was sitting.” So saying, he handed it to Hassan, who delivered it to the owner.

“Pray express my thanks to him,” said Emily.

In obeying this command Hassan employed language so correct and courteous that the Bey’s curiosity was excited, and he fixed upon him a glance of keen scrutiny. His eye was met by one frank and fearless as his own; and while the Bey looked with admiration at the noble features and commanding form of the young Bedouin, our hero thought that he had never seen the vigour of manhood so happily united to a snowy beard—that object of profound reverence to youth in the East.

No sooner had the Bey left than Mr Thorpe asked Hassan if they had ever met before.

“No,” he replied; “I am only just arrived, and know not who he is.” They then communicated to him the intelligence which Demetri had obtained respecting his name and history.

“What!” exclaimed Hassan, “is that the famous Dervish, the swordsman? Often have I heard Delì Pasha speak of his gallant feats in Arabia, and he looks like what they say of him: would that I had met him when he was twenty years younger!”

“Wherefore, Hassan?” inquired Emily, timidly.

“That I might have proved my sword against his,” replied Hassan, his eyes flashing as he spoke.

“Surely, Hassan,” said Mr Thorpe, mildly, “you could not indulge in hostile feelings towards one whose manner and appearance entitle him to respect.”

“I was wrong, sir,” replied Hassan; “I should ask pardon for my hasty speech. I have lived so much of late among those who are always engaged in strife, that I almost forgot that life has any other occupation. Believe me that I pay due honour to his white beard, and in the hasty words which I spoke I only meant that I envied him the honourable fame that his sword has obtained for him.”

A moonlight November evening at Thebes—who that has once enjoyed can ever forget it? The mild and temperate air; the noble river—the author and nourisher of all the fertility of Egypt—rolling its majestic tide beneath the time-honoured remains of the temple of Luxor; a mile or two to the northward the yet more ancient and magnificent ruins of Karnak; while at some distance inland, on the opposite banks of the Nile, are dimly discernible the Memnonium, celebrated in classic fable, and the hills, within whose chambered sides repose the ashes of the mighty of olden time—monarchs who had conquered kingdoms and raised imperishable monuments of architecture and art ere Greece or Rome had emerged from the insignificance of barbarism.

Such was the scene where the Thorpes were assembled on the evening which followed the events just related. Hassan was with them, and had already during the day drawn from Mr Thorpe a detailed account of the ladies’ visit to Amina; and as he heard recounted the deep emotion caused by the mention of his name, hope had once more arisen within his breast. Near, too, sat Dervish Bey, who had deferred his departure, and had courteously accepted Mr Thorpe’s invitation to take a cup of coffee with their party. None of them failed to observe with how scrutinising a glance his eye rested upon Hassan, and Mr Thorpe felt convinced that the ex-Governor either had learnt or suspected that the young Bedouin before him was no other than Hassan, the far-famed outlaw. Upon Mr Thorpe’s hinting as much to Hassan, he replied with a smile—

“If it be so, there is no harm. Dervish Bey is a brave soldier, not a spy or informer.”

On the following morning Abou-Hamedi, who had been absent the greater part of the night, reported to Hassan that he had obtained information of a band of thieves in the neighbourhood who seemed to have evil intentions towards Dervish Bey. He had accidentally fallen in with one of these fellows at a small coffee-house in the village of Luxor, and suspecting from casual expressions that he belonged to some band who meant mischief, he plied him so well with arrack and the intoxicating drug called _hashish_ that he was able to learn from the man that he was associated with a body of thieves and _moharrabin_, the latter of whom had escaped from the conscription lately issued in Upper Egypt for the levy of troops to march into Sennaar. Several of these fellows had been flogged for insubordination by Dervish Bey, who was a severe disciplinarian, and having ascertained that he was travelling down to Keneh on horseback with only a few followers, the greater part of his suite being on board his boats, they had laid a plot to waylay and rob him in some unfrequented part of the road. Abou-Hamedi encouraged his tipsy friend to believe that he highly approved the scheme, and hoped to participate in its execution.

Hassan lost no time in returning to Luxor in order to put Dervish Bey on his guard, and was disappointed to find that the old soldier had started at daybreak, and was already some miles on his way.

Hassan resolved to follow him immediately. Before doing so he called on Mr Thorpe, and having informed him of the intelligence that he had received, recommended him to communicate it without delay to the Governor of Luxor, and to have the guards doubled for the protection of his own dahabiahs, lest the predatory band should be tempted to pay him a visit.

Mr Thorpe thanked him for his warning, and placed in his hands a letter, which he requested that he would find means to deliver to the Viceroy’s interpreter, a commission which Hassan promised to fulfil. He was not aware that it contained an account of the attack made upon his boats by Abou-Hashem’s band, and of the manner in which his party and his property had been rescued by Hassan at the imminent risk of his life. Our hero was so anxious to overtake Dervish Bey, and to warn him of the plot laid by the _moharrabin_, that, bidding the Thorpes a hasty but cordial farewell, he galloped off in the direction of Keneh.

Meanwhile Dervish Bey, unsuspicious of any danger, passed the ruins of Karnak and continued his course to the northward, intending to reach at nightfall a small village called Solemieh, which belonged to him, and the rents of which had fallen somewhat in arrear. He was accompanied only by his _khaznadâr_, his _chibouqchi_, two armed servants, and a couple of _sàises_, who looked after his baggage-mules, which were three in number.

He had journeyed about ten miles, and was crossing a desert plain on which no human habitation was visible, and where the neglected soil produced nothing but that rank mixture of tall weeds called in Egypt _khalfah_. His thoughts were dwelling on his unexpected meeting with the Frank party at Luxor, and, more than all, on the young Bedouin, whose remarkable appearance and qualities had strongly excited his interest. That the latter was, indeed, the formidable outlaw of whom he had heard so much he had no doubt; yet, instead of the fierce, rough bandit whom he had pictured to himself, he had found a gentle-mannered, noble-looking youth, speaking the language of the Franks, and evidently esteemed by them; one, moreover, the characteristic expression of whose countenance seemed to be a thoughtful melancholy, and whose taste for poetry and conversation appeared totally at variance with the deeds of lawless violence and daring attributed to him by report.

Whilst he was riding slowly on, musing on these things with an interest which he could scarcely explain to himself, his _khaznadâr_ rode up and called his attention to a party of about twenty men who were approaching, and whose appearance was anything but reassuring. They were a strangely-assorted band, half on horseback, half on foot, some armed with guns, some with lances, and all with swords of different fashion. From the weather-stained and tattered remains of uniform still visible in the attire of some of the party, the experienced eye of Dervish Bey recognised them at once as _moharrabin_,—men who, as they rob and plunder with a halter round their necks, are generally the most cruel and bloodthirsty of lawless bands.

Dervish Bey lost not a moment in ordering his small party to get ready their swords and pistols, and as the robbers drew near he called out to inquire what they wanted. The only reply was a musket-ball, which passed close by his cheek.

Regardless of the disproportion of numbers, the brave old soldier struck his stirrups into his horse’s flanks, and, followed by his attendants, charged full at the centre of the band. So well did he wield his once-renowned sword that several had already fallen victims to its edge when an unlucky ball entered the eye of his horse, which reared and fell on its side. In vain did he struggle to withdraw his leg from the carcass of the dead horse, which pinned it to the ground; but his right arm was free, and he still continued to ward off the cuts which one or two of the cowardly miscreants on foot were making at his head.

At this moment a black steed passed like a meteor by the fallen Bey, while a single groan announced the fate of one of those who had been cutting at him. Again the black horse wheeled and was at his side, and the second robber fell dead by his companion.

The Bey caught sight of the rider’s face, changed indeed from what he had seen on the preceding day. Now the angry veins swelled on the brow, fire darted from the flashing eyes, and the sweep of the vengeful arm was like a tempest. Again and again did he charge among the astonished banditti, shouting and dealing his terrible blows, each of which bore with it a life or a limb. Cuts and bullets were aimed at him during his headlong course, but it seemed as if he were proof against lead or steel.

His impetuosity had carried him to some distance from the prostrate soldier, when he saw that again several of the miscreants on foot were approaching to despatch him. Shouting aloud his war-cry of “Hassan Ebn-el-Heràm” in a voice that rose high above the din of the conflict, he dashed his stirrups into Shèitan’s flank, and in a few bounds was again beside the fallen chief.

For a second the sound of that dreaded name seemed to paralyse every arm, and Hassan had time to throw himself from his panting horse and to cover with his own person, and with his sweeping sword, the helpless form of the prostrate Bey.

Indignant at being foiled by a single man, they crowded around him, and had he not succeeded in snatching from one of the robbers a round shield of hippopotamus-hide, such as is used by the natives of Soudan, he must soon have fallen beneath the blows aimed at him from so many quarters. As it was, he fought like a lion at bay, and, though wounded in several places, was still maintaining the unequal contest, when Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo, who had been unable to keep up with the furious speed at which Shèitan had borne his impetuous rider, now appeared on the scene. Two of the ruffians who were attacking Hassan fell at once beneath the swords of his faithful followers, and the remainder, astonished and disheartened at this unexpected reinforcement, slowly retired.

Hassan vaulted once more on the back of Shèitan, refreshed by the short breathing-time which his rider’s conflict on foot had allowed him, and again shouting his war-cry, charged the hesitating band, accompanied by his two brave attendants.