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“It makes my blood run cold,” said Slatin softly in English, as Macnamara passed him, walking at his master’s stirrup.

“Mine’s boilin’, sir!” answered Macnamara.

Slatin’s eyes took on a more cheerful look than they usually carried, for it was many a day since he had been addressed with respect, and the “sir” touched a mellow chord within him–memory of the days when he was Governor of Darfur. Suddenly he saw the Khalifa’s eyes fixed on Macnamara, and the look, for a wonder, was not unfriendly. It came to him that perhaps the Khalifa meant to take Macnamara for his own servant, for it flattered his vanity to have a white man at his stirrup and on his mat. He knew that the Khalifa was only sending himself to Darfur that he might be a check upon Mahommed Sherif. He did not think that Macnamara’s position would be greatly bettered, save perhaps in bread and onions, by being taken into the employ of the Khalifa. His life would certainly not be safer. But, if it was to be, perhaps he could do a good turn to Macnamara by warning him, by planting deep in the Khalifa’s mind the Irishman’s simple-minded trustworthiness. When, therefore, the Khalifa suddenly turned and asked him about Macnamara he chose his words discreetly. The Khalifa, ever suspicious, said that Macnamara had been thrown into prison twice for insubordination. To this Slatin replied:

“Sire, what greater proof could be had of the man’s simplicity? His life is in your hands, sire. Would he have risked it, had he not been the most simpleminded of men? But you who read men’s hearts, sire, as others read a book, you know if I speak truth.” Slatin bent his head in humility.

The flattery pleased the Khalifa.

“Summon Osman Wad Adam and the man to me,” he said.

In the questioning that followed, Macnamara’s Arabic and his understanding of it was so bad that it was necessary for Slatin to ask him questions in English. This was a test of Macnamara, for Slatin said some things in English which were not for the Khalifa’s knowing. If Macnamara’s face changed, if he started, Abdullah’s suspicions, ever ready, would have taken form.

But Macnamara’s wits were not wool-gathering, and when Slatin said to him, “If I escape, I will try to arrange yours,” Macnamara replied, with a respectful but placid stolidity: “Right, sir. Where does the old sinner keep his spoof?”

It was now for Slatin to keep a hold on himself, for Macnamara’s reply was unexpected. Ruling his face to composure, however, he turned to the Khalifa and said that up to this moment Macnamara had not been willing to become a Mahommedan, but his veneration for the Mahdi’s successor was so great that he would embrace the true faith by the mercy of God and the permission of the Khalifa. When the Khalifa replied that he would accept the convert into the true faith at once, Slatin then said to Macnamara:

“Come now, my man, I’ve promised that you will become a Mahommedan–it’s your best chance of safety.”

“I’ll see him on the devil’s pitchfork first,” said Macnamara; but he did not change countenance. “I’m a Protestant and I’ll stand be me baptism.”

“You’ll lose your head, man,” answered Slatin. “Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m keepin’ to what me godfathers and godmothers swore for me,” answered Macnamara stubbornly. “You must pretend for a while, or you’ll be dead in an hour–and myself too.”

“You–that’s a different nose on me face,” answered Macnamara. “But suppose I buck when I get into the mosque–no, begobs, I’ll not be doin’ it!”

“I’ll say to him that you’ll do it with tears of joy, if you can have a month for preparation.”

“Make it two an’ I’m your man, seein’ as you’ve lied for me, sir. But on wan condition–where does he keep his coin?”

“If you try that on, you’ll die bit by bit like the men in the Beit-el-Mal to-day,” answered Slatin quickly. “I’m carvin’ me own mutton, thank ye kindly, sir,” answered Macnamara.