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So Dicky said now, “All right, Norman; come along. You’ll seize that fessikh, and I’ll bring back Mustapha Kali. We’ll work him as he has never worked in his life. He’ll be a living object-lesson. We’ll have all Upper Egypt on the banks of the Nile waiting to see what happens to Mustapha.”

Dicky laughed, and Fielding responded feebly; but Norman was looking at the hospital with a look too bright for joy, too intense for despair.

“I found ten in a corner of a cane-field yesterday,” he said dreamily. “Four were dead, and the others had taken the dead men’s smocks as covering.” He shuddered. “I see nothing but limewash, smell nothing but carbolic. It’s got into my head. Look here, old man, I can’t stand it. I’m no use,” he added pathetically to Fielding.

“You’re right enough, if you’ll not take yourself so seriously,” said Dicky jauntily. “You mustn’t try to say, ‘Alone I did it.’ Come along. Fill your tobacco-pouch. There are the horses. I’m ready.”

He turned to Fielding.

“It’s going to be a stiff ride, Fielding. But I’ll do it in twenty-four hours, and bring Mustapha Kali too–for a consideration.”

He paused, and Fielding said, with an attempt at playfulness: “Name your price.”

“That you play for me, when I get back, the overture of ‘Tannhauser’. Play it, mind; no tuning-up sort of thing, like last Sunday’s performance. Practise it, my son! Is it a bargain? I’m not going to work for nothing a day.”

He watched the effect of his words anxiously, for he saw how needful it was to divert Fielding’s mind in the midst of all this “plague, pestilence, and famine.” For days Fielding had not touched the piano, the piano which Mrs. Henshaw, widow of Henshaw of the Buffs, had insisted on his taking with him a year before, saying that it would be a cure for loneliness when away from her. During the first of these black days Fielding had played intermittently for a few moments at a time, and Dicky had noticed that after playing he seemed in better spirits. But lately the disease of a ceaseless unrest, of constant sleepless work, was on him. He had not played for near a week, saying, in response to Dicky’s urging, that there was no time for music. And Dicky knew that presently there would be no time to eat, and then no time to sleep; and then, the worst!

Dicky had pinned his faith and his friendship to Fielding, and he saw no reason why he should lose his friend because Madame Cholera was stalking the native villages, driving the fellaheen before her like sheep to the slaughter.

“Is it a bargain?” he added, as Fielding did not at once reply. If Fielding would but play it would take the strain off his mind at times.

“All right, D., I’ll see what I can do with it,” said Fielding, and with a nod turned to the map with the little red and white and yellow flags, and began to study it.

He did not notice that one of his crew abaft near the wheel was watching him closely, while creeping along the railing on the pretence of cleaning it. Fielding was absorbed in making notes upon a piece of paper and moving the little flags about. Now he lit a cigar and began walking up and down the deck.

The Arab disappeared, but a few minutes afterwards returned. The deck was empty. Fielding had ridden away to the village. The map was still on the table. With a frightened face the Arab peered at it, then going to the side he called down softly, and there came up from the lower deck a Copt, the sarraf of the village, who could read English fairly. The Arab pointed to the map, and the Copt approached cautiously. A few feet away he tried to read what was on the map, but, unable to do so, drew closer, pale-faced and knockkneed, and stared at the map and the little flags. An instant after he drew back, and turned to the Arab. “May God burn his eyes! He sends the death to the village by moving the flags. May God change him into a dog to be beaten to death! The red is to begin, the white flag is for more death, the yellow is for enough. See–may God cut off his hand!–he has moved the white flag to our village.” He pointed in a trembling fear, half real, half assumed–for he was of a nation of liars.