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“You wished to see Kingsley Bey a prisoner; you have your wish,” he said smiling.

“Whose prisoner?” she asked, still coldly. “The Khedive’s.”

A flash of triumph crossed her face. Her heart beat hard. Had it come at last, the edict to put down slavery? Had the Khedive determined to put an end to the work of Kingsley Bey in his desert-city-and to Kingsley Bey himself?… Her heart stopped beating now. She glanced towards Dicky Donovan, and her pulses ran more evenly again. Would the Khedive have taken such a step unless under pressure? And who in Egypt could have, would have, persuaded him, save Dicky Donovan? Yet Dicky was here with his friend Kingsley Bey. The mystery troubled her, and the trouble got into her eyes.

“You are going to Cairo?” she said, glancing towards the boat.

“It would seem so.”

“And Donovan Pasha goes too?”

“I hope so. I am not sure.”

“But he must go,” she said a little sharply.

“Yes?”

“He–you must have somebody, and he has great power.”

“That might or might not be to my benefit. After all, what does it matter?”–He saw that she was perturbed, and he pressed his advantage.

She saw, however, and retreated. “We reap as we sow,” she said, and made as if to go inside the house. “You have had the game, you must pay for the candles out of your earnings.”

“I don’t mind paying what’s fair. I don’t want other people to pay.”

She turned angrily on him, he could not tell why. “You don’t want others to pay! As if you could do anything that doesn’t affect others. Did you learn that selfishness at Skaw Fell, or was it born with you? You are of those who think they earn all their own success and happiness, and then, when they earn defeat and despair, are surprised that others suffer. As if our penalties were only paid by ourselves! Egotism, vanity! So long as you have your dance, it matters little to you who pays for the tune.”

“I am sorry.” He was bewildered; he had not expected this.

“Does a man stoop to do in a foreign land what he would not do in his own country–dare not do?–One is so helpless–a woman! Under cover of an old friend ship–ah!” She suddenly turned, and, before he could say a word, disappeared inside the house. He spoke her name once, twice; he ventured inside the house, and called, but she did not come. He made his way to the veranda, and was about to leave for the shore, when he heard a step behind him. He turned quickly. It was the Circassian girl, Mata.

He spoke to her in Arabic, and she smiled at him. “What is it?” he asked, for he saw she had come from her mistress.

“My Lady begs to excuse–but she is tired,” she said in English, which she loved to use.

“I am to go on–to prison, then?”

“I suppose. It has no matter. My Lady is angry. She has to say, ‘Thank you, good-bye.’ So, goodbye,” she added naively, and held out her hand.

Kingsley laughed, in spite of his discomfiture, and shook it.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am My Lady’s slave,” she said proudly.

“No, no–her servant. You can come and go as you like. You have wages.”

“I am Mata, the slave–My Lady’s slave. All the world knows I am her slave. Was I not given her by the Khedive whose slave I was? May the leaves of life be green always, but I am Mata the slave,” she said stubbornly, shaking her head.

“Do you tell My Lady so?”

“Wherefore should I tell My Lady what she knows? Is not the truth the truth? Good-night! I had a brother who went to prison. His grave is by Stamboul. Good-night, effendi. He was too young to die, but he had gold, and the captain of the citadel needed money. So, he had to die. Malaish! He is in the bosom of God, and prison does not last forever. Goodnight, effendi. If you, effendi, are poor, it is well; no man will desire your life. Then you can be a slave, and have quiet nights. If you are rich, effendi, remember my brother. Good-night, effendi. May sacrifices be yours… and My Lady says good-night.” Kingsley gave her a gold-piece and went down to Foulik Pasha.