"Tell me, sir," said Gordon.
The Consul-General rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room with long strides and heavy tread.
"It means," he said, "that the Egyptians, like all other Mohammedans, are cut off by their religion from the spirit and energy of the great civilised nations – that, swathed in the bands of the Koran, the Moslem faith is like a mummy, dead to all uses of the modern world."
The Consul-General drew up sharply and continued —
"Perhaps all dogmatic religions are more or less like that, but the Christian religion has accommodated itself to the spirit of the ages, whereas Islam remains fixed, the religion of the seventh century, born in a desert and suckled in a society that was hardly better than barbarism."
He began to walk again and to talk with great animation.
"What does Islam mean? It means slavery, seclusion of women, indiscriminate divorce, unlimited polygamy, the breakdown of the family and the destruction of the nation. Well, what happens? Civilisation comes along, and it is death to all such dark ways. What next? The scheming Sheikhs, the corrupt Pashas, the tyrannical Caliphs, all the rascals and rogues who batten on corruption, the fanatics who are opponents of the light, cry out against it. Either they must lose their interests or civilisation must go. What then? Civilisation means the West, the West means Christianity. So 'Down with the Christians! O Moslems, help us to kill them!'"
The Consul-General stopped by Gordon's chair, put his hand on his son's shoulder, and said —
"There comes a time in the history of all our Mohammedan dependencies – India, Egypt, every one of them – when England has to confront a condition like that."
"And what has she to do, sir?"
The Consul-General lifted his right fist and brought it down on his left palm, and said —
"To come down with a heavy hand on the lying agitators and intriguers who are leading away the ignorant populace."
"I agree, sir. It is the agitators who should be punished, not the poor, emotional, credulous Egyptian people."
"The Egyptian people, my boy, are graceless ingrates who under the influence of momentary passion would brain their best friend with their nabouts, and go like camels before the camel-driver."
Gordon winced visibly, but only said, "Who is the camel-driver in this instance, sir?"
"A certain Ishmael Ameer, preaching in the great mosque at Alexandria, the cradle of all disaffection."
"An Alim?"
"A teacher of some sort, saying England is the deadly foe of Islam, and must therefore be driven out."
"Then he is worse than the journalists?"
"Yes, we thought of the viper, forgetting the scorpion."
"But is it certain he is so dangerous?"
"One of the leaders of his own people has just been here to say that if we let that man go on it will be death to the rule of England in Egypt."
"The Grand Cadi?"
The Consul-General nodded and then said, "The cunning rogue has a grievance of his own, I find, but what's that to me? The first duty of a government is to keep order."
"I agree," said Gordon.
"There may be picric acid in prayers as well as in bombs."
"There may."
"We have to make these fanatical preachers realise that even if the onward march of progress is but faintly heard in the sealed vaults of their mosque, civilisation is standing outside the walls with its laws and, if need be, its soldiers."
"You are satisfied, sir, that this man is likely to lead the poor, foolish people into rapine and slaughter?"
"I recognise a bird by its flight. This is another Mahdi – I see it – I feel it," said the Consul-General, and his eyes flashed and his voice echoed like a horn.
"You want me to smash the Mahdi?"
"Exactly! Your namesake wanted to smash his predecessor – romantic person – too fond of guiding his conduct by reference to the prophet Isaiah; but he was right in that, and the Government was wrong, and the consequence was the massacre you represented to-day."
"I have to arrest Ishmael Ameer?"
"That's so, in open riot if possible, and if not, by means of testimony derived from his sermons in the mosques."
"Hadn't we better begin there, sir – make sure that he is inciting the people to violence?"
"As you please!"
"You don't forget that the mosques are closed to me as a Christian?"
The Consul-General reflected for a moment and then said —
"Where's Fatimah's son, Hafiz?"
"With his regiment at Abbassiah."
"Take him with you – take two other Moslem witnesses as well."
"I'm to bring this new prophet back to Cairo?"
"That's it – bring him here – we'll do all the rest."
"What if there should be trouble with the people?"
"There's a battalion of British soldiers in Alexandria. Keep a force in readiness – under arms night and day."
"But if it should spread beyond Alexandria?"
"So much the better for you. I mean," said the Consul-General, hesitating for the first time, "we don't want bloodshed, but if it must come to that, it must, and the eyes of England will be on you. What more can a young man want? Think of yourself" – he put his hand on his son's shoulder again – "think of yourself as on the eve of crushing England's enemies and rendering a signal service to Gordon Lord as well. And now go – go up to your General and get his formal consent. My love to Helena! Fine girl, very! She's the sort of woman who might … yes, women are the springs that move everything in this world. Bid good-bye to your mother and get away. Lose no time. Write to me as soon as you have anything to say. That's enough for the present. I'm busy. Good day!"
Almost before Gordon had left the library the Consul-General was back at his desk – the stern, saturnine man once more, with a face that seemed to express a mind inaccessible to human emotions of any sort.
"As bright as light – sees things before one says them," he said to himself, as Gordon closed the door on going out. "Why have I wasted myself with weaklings so long?"
Gordon kissed his pale-faced mother in the drawing-room and his swarthy foster-mother in the porch, and went back to his quarters in barracks – a rather bare room with bed, desk, and bookcase, many riding boots on a shelf, several weapons of savage warfare on the walls, a dervish's suit of chain armour with a bullet-hole where the heart of the man had been, a picture of Eton, his old school, and above all, as became the home of a soldier, many photographs of his womankind – his mother with her plaintive smile, Fatimah with her humorous look, and of course Helena, with her glorious eyes – Helena, Helena, everywhere Helena.
There, taking down the receiver of a telephone, he called up the headquarters of the Egyptian army and spoke to Hafiz, his foster-brother, now a captain in the native cavalry.
"Is that you, Hafiz? … Well, look here, I want to know if you can arrange to go with me to Alexandria for a day or two … You can? Good! I wish you to help me to deal with that new preacher, prophet, Mahdi, what's his name now? … That's it, Ishmael Ameer. He has been setting Moslem against Christian, and we've got to lay the gentleman by the heels before he gets the poor, credulous people into further trouble… What do you say? … Not that kind of man, you think? … No? … You surprise me… Do you really mean to say … Certainly, that's only fair … Yes, I ought to know all about him… Your uncle? … Chancellor of the University? … I know, El Azhar… When could I see him? … What day do we go to