Barbasson and Shula were walking along the banks of the Nile discussing the best way to assist the Mahdi.
Shula was for openly proclaiming the advent of the prophet, and calling on all good religionists to rally round his standard.
But Barbasson was crafty.
He was richer than Shula, and not so hot-headed.
“If the Mahdi wins that would be a good plan, but if he fails——”
“He won’t fail.”
“I hope not; but suppose he did?”
“Well?”
“We should lose our property, and perhaps——”
“Our lives. Just so. I am ready to risk that.”
“I am not; I have a great horror of death.”
“Yourself, perhaps, my worthy Barbasson; but you don’t mind killing others,” Shula retorted, sharply.
“What mean you?”
“Why, Barbasson, don’t you know?”
“By the beard of the prophet, no!”
“Then let me remind you. Four moons ago I was watching a dahabeah on the Nile; I saw something bulky thrown overboard——”
“Well, what of that? Some refuse for which the Nile was the best place.”
“Possibly. Only I was curious. I fished up the bundle and found——”
“What?”
“A most lovely girl.”
“The prophet be praised! Was she dead?”
“Not much. She told me her story. How one of your wives took a great dislike to her——”
“One of my wives?”
“Yes; the girl was called Leila.”
Barbasson was about to speak, but Shula stopped him.
“I liked Leila. I found she was pretty and good, and I took her into my harem.”
“That is your business. What is it to me?”
“You said you had a horror of death, but you threw Leila into the water.”
“Bah! that was only a girl—and they are not missed.”
Barbasson suggested—when he had got over his annoyance—that secret agents should be sent out and that riots should be organized.
Then, when every part of the city of Kordofan was in disorder, Shula should come forward and proclaim the advent of the Mahdi.
This was agreed upon, and the conspirators, now joined by Rashid and Nasr el Adin, started on their homeward journey.
“What was that?” Shula suddenly exclaimed, as a splash was heard in the water.
“A crocodile, most likely.”
“Pish! there are no crocodiles so near the city.”
“I suppose it is some recalcitrant from yonder harem.”
“What! Mahmoud Achmet?”
“Yes; he drowns a dozen girls a month.”
“The prophet will stop all that.”
“I hope so.”
“It depends. Mahmoud Achmet pays most of the expenses of the government here, and he is never molested for beating or drowning his wives. Of course, he never touches a man.”
Such was the state of morality in the Soudan at the time that a woman’s life was considered of no more value than that of a dog or any common animal.
A man got angry with his wife or daughter, and he could drown her, providing he did it decently—that is, place her body in a sack, with some heavy weights, so that the body should not rise to the surface.
While the conspirators were discussing the morality of Mahmoud Achmet, their eyes were strained in an endeavor to discover what had caused the splashing sound.
A dark object was seen, and Shula, who was more humane than the majority of Kordofans, stepped into a boat anchored by the bank, and pushed out in the stream.
He made a prod with the boat hook, and managed to stick it in the canvas sack.
He towed it to land, and soon opened the sack.
He expected to find some discarded wife of Mahmoud Achmet, and hoped she would be young and pretty, because by the laws she would be his slave.
To his astonishment—and equally so to the surprise of the other—instead of a woman the sack contained a man, and that man our young friend—Madcap Max.
Max was unconscious.
When he had been thrown into the river so unceremoniously he struggled all he knew how to free himself.
What could he do?
He struggled, but the sack was securely fastened.
His body was doubled so that he could not use his hands to tear the bag or strike out.
In two minutes he had relinquished all hope.
He began to wish that he had never heard of the Mahdi, or the Mameluke.
But regrets were useless.
He knew he had to die.
Had it been on the battlefield, pitted against a foe, he would have been proud to die—because he knew no disgrace would be attached to it.
But to die in a sack, like a mangy dog or vicious cat, was so hurtful to his self-respect and so humiliating that he cried with vexation.
The water got to his lungs. His stomach was full of it. His brain grew dizzy.
The singing in his ears had become like the roaring of the waters of a great cataract.
Mercifully unconsciousness came, and had not the conspirators been discussing their schemes of rioting and rebellion at night by the banks of the Nile, Madcap Max would never have been the hero of this story.
Shula rubbed Max briskly.
He straightened out the madcap’s body and laid it face downward.
The conspirators began kneading the poor fellow’s back—sitting on it, treading it, kneeling on it, and using every means of which they knew to restore life.
“Get out of that and meet a fellow face to face.”
The words startled the conspirators.
They were uttered by Max, who, black and blue with the treatment he had been subjected to, had revived with great suddenness.
He did not realize where he was, but he knew he was being hurt, hence his calling out.
He jumped to his feet.
“Shula!” he exclaimed.
“Max!”
“Yes. How did you find me? Was I drowned? Where am I?”
“You are not drowned; you are by the Nile’s water, and the less you say the longer you will be likely to live. Come—let us get home. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can.”
Max started forward, but before his legs had moved a dozen times he fell on his face.
The conspirators lifted him up, and as no conveyances were to be found in Kordofan at that hour of the night, they had to carry him to Shula’s residence.
Before morning’s dawn he had told his adventures and laughed at the escapade.
“If ever the Mahdi rules in Kordofan I am going to see Lalla,” he said. “I want to know more about her.”
“Not even the prophet could give you the right to enter any man’s harem,” said Shula.
“Then your Mahdi must be a queer sort of fellow.”
Max was unable to talk longer, for he was naturally weak from his struggles in the Nile.
Twenty-four hours elapsed before he was able to feel that he was the strong athlete again.
When he awoke on the morning of the third day he heard cries which roused him:
“Allah il Allah!”
“Long live the Mahdi!”
“Down with the foreigner!”
“The Mahdi has come!”
Max looked at Shula, but the merchant did not speak.
His face was white as that of a corpse. He knew that he had staked all his property and his life on the riot which was then in progress.
“Is it true? Has the Mahdi come?”
“No, Max, but the people are expecting him.”
A heavy fusillade was heard on the streets, the windows were shaken, and some panes of glass broken.
“What does it mean?”
“They are fighting,” answered Shula.