The Eye Of The Needle
by
In spite of being an Englishman with an Irish name and a little Irish blood, Dicky Donovan had risen high in the favour of the Khedive, remaining still the same Dicky Donovan he had always been–astute but incorruptible. While he was favourite he used his power wisely, and it was a power which had life and death behind it. When therefore, one day, he asked permission to take a journey upon a certain deadly business of justice, the Khedive assented to all he asked, but fearing for his safety, gave him his own ring to wear and a line under his seal.
With these Dicky set forth for El Medineh in the Fayoum, where his important business lay. As he cantered away from El Wasta, out through the green valley and on into the desert where stands the Pyramid of Maydoum, he turned his business over and over in his mind, that he might study it from a hundred sides. For miles he did not see a human being–only a caravan of camels in the distance, some vultures overhead and the smoke of the train behind him by the great river. Suddenly, however, as he cantered over the crest of a hill, he saw in the desert-trail before him a foot-traveller, who turned round hastily, almost nervously, at the sound of his horse’s feet.
It was the figure of a slim, handsome youth, perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty. The face was clean-shaven, and though the body seemed young and the face was unlined, the eyes were terribly old. Pathos and fanaticism were in the look, so Dicky Donovan thought. He judged the young Arab to be one of the holy men who live by the gifts of the people, and who do strange acts of devotion; such as sitting in one place for twenty years, or going without clothes, or chanting the Koran ten hours a day, or cutting themselves with knives. But this young man was clothed in the plain blue calico of the fellah, and on his head was a coarse brown fez of raw wool. Yet round the brown fez was a green cloth, which may only be worn by one who has been a pilgrimage to Mecca.
“Nehar-ak koom said–God be with you!” said Dicky in Arabic.
“Nehar-ak said, efendi–God prosper thy greatness!” was the reply, in a voice as full as a man’s, but as soft as a woman’s–an unusual thing in an Arab. “Have you travelled far?” asked Dicky.
“From the Pyramid of Maydoum, effendi,” was the quiet reply.
Dicky laughed. “A poor tavern; cold sleeping there, Mahommed.”
“The breath of Allah is warm,” answered the Arab. Dicky liked the lad’s answer. Putting a hand in his saddle-bag, he drew out a cake of dourha bread and some onions–for he made shift to live as the people lived, lest he should be caught unawares some time, and die of the remembrance of too much luxury in the midst of frugal fare.
“Plenty be in your home, Mahommed!” he said, and held out the bread and onions.
The slim hands came up at once and took the food, the eyes flashed a strange look at Dicky. “God give you plenty upon your plenty, effendi, and save your soul and the souls of your wife and children, if it be your will, effendi!”
“I have no wife, praise be to God,” said Dicky; “but if I had, her soul would be saved before my own, or I’m a dervish!” Then something moved him further, and he unbuttoned his pocket–for there really was a button to Dicky’s pocket. He drew out a five-piastre piece, and held it down to the young Arab. “For the home-coming after Mecca,” he said, and smiled.
The young Arab drew back. “I will eat thy bread, but no more, effendi,” he said quickly.
“Then you’re not what I thought you were,” said Dicky under his breath, and, with a quick good-bye, struck a heel into the horse’s side and galloped away toward El Medineh.