CHAPTER XXIII.
UNDER THE MAHDI.
To the simple minds of those Soudanese peasants and soldiers, the experiment, or trick, of the Mahdi, was sufficient evidence of his power and of the truth of his mission.
Sherif el Habib, however, was grieved.
He had seen the dervishes do a similar thing, and he wished that the Mahdi had shown his power in some other way.
Not that any doubt crossed his mind, but Sherif el Habib wanted to believe that the Mahdi possessed a power unlimited, and which no one could imitate.
Reading his thoughts, the Mahdi turned to him.
“Believer from the glorious mosque of Khorassan, the proof of my power must be adapted to those who are witnesses of it. Had I said to this mountain: ‘Get thee back ten leagues,’ and it had obeyed, it would not have been more convincing than the snake transformation.”
“To me it would,” said Max, “and if you will remove the mountain even ten feet, I’ll give up my country and adopt yours.”
The Mahdi made no answer.
He treated the young American with contempt.
Sherif el Habib apologized for his speech, while Mohammed bowed his head, grieved that anyone in his caravan should speak so lightly or demand such a great miracle.
Max was in disgrace.
He wandered away and strolled near where the women members of the caravan were encamped.
He walked about, his head bent down, for he was sorry that he had offended his friends.
“What grieveth my brother?” asked a low, sweet voice at his side.
He turned, and a female form stood beside him, heavily veiled.
Coquettishly the veil was removed a little, and he caught a glimpse of Girzilla.
Max was pleased. He felt his heart throb with delight.
He almost envied Ibrahim, and yet he, a white man, could never marry a dark-skinned Arabian.
“Why art thou sad?” Girzilla asked again.
Max told her of the offense he had given.
“If he be the Mahdi,” said she, consolingly, “he will not be offended. If he be not the Mahdi, he will not hurt my brother for fear of offending Mohammed, my father, and the illustrious Sherif el Habib.”
“It is fair reasoning, my true one, my Girzilla. How strange that, through saving me, you should be restored to your friends.”
“It is indeed. Oh, Max, my mother is lovely.”
“I am glad you are so happy, and yet you will soon leave her and go with thy husband.”
“I suppose so;” and Girzilla sighed.
“Tell me, Girzilla, do you not love Ibrahim?”
“Yes—that—I—what shall I say?”
“Speak to me as a brother, dear one.”
“As a—brother. Ah, yes—but art thou going away?”
“Going away?”
“To seek the last of the Mamelukes?”
“I must. I feel that I would like to do so, but I have no one to guide me.”
“I could instruct thee.”
“Will you?”
“Perhaps, but——”
Fearing to say more, the girl ran away, leaving Max far happier than when she had joined him.
He returned to his friends, and with that generous nature which characterized him, he sought out the Mahdi.
“I was wrong to speak as I did,” he said, “but I am not of thy faith. You adopt the crescent, my sign is the cross. Mahomet did a grand work for your people, but my Savior is Jesus.”
“He is one of our prophets.”
“I know it. But let us not talk of faith or creed. You are beset with danger. Your enemies may league against you——”
“They may, but they cannot triumph.”
“Perhaps not. But if I can be of use to you while I am in the camp, I will fight under your standard, and if the English came——”
“They will not.”
“If they do, I will not leave you till the end. I am an American, and I would like to be able to tell the English to stay at home and mind their own business.”
It was a long speech for Max to make, but the Mahdi could see it came from the heart.
For several days the camp was undisturbed.
“I shall remain here until the end of the rainy season,” said the Mahdi, “and then I shall march on Kordofan.”
Mohammed and Sherif el Habib determined to stay with the new prophet, and to participate in what they believed to be his forthcoming triumphal march across the Soudan.
Max began to love the Mahdi, for the man was essentially human, grandly sublime in his ideas, and, although undoubtedly a religious fanatic, an able man.
That Mohammed Ahmed really believed he was the Mahdi, no one could doubt.
In his own estimation he was no impostor.
His asceticism, his study, his extreme self-denial, all tended to make him believe in his mission.
But, although the Mahdi had faith in his divine authority, he was too good a soldier to neglect military precautions.
Every morning at sunrise the bugle sounded, and the soldiers and followers of the new prophet were drilled for an hour.
At ten o’clock they were again mustered and drilled in the manual of arms.
Sherif el Habib was given the command of a division, and he appointed Ibrahim as his chief of staff, while Max occupied the same post of responsibility under Mohammed.
Each knew that at any moment they might have to fight, and our young heroes were eager for the fray.
Truth to tell, Max was a soldier born. He was never so happy as when engaged in combat, either in a wordy war with his tongue or in the more deadly conflict with the sword.
When not engaged in some work of the kind his madcap proclivities were sure to manifest themselves, and he would make some one the victim of his practical jokes.
His wish for a fight was soon to be gratified, and before he left the Mahdi he saw blood flow like water, and men go down to the valley of death by the thousand.