CHAPTER II.
EMIN BEY’S ESCAPE.
When the passengers landed, a rabble of donkey drivers met them.
No more clever, impudent little gossoons exist on the face of the earth than these same Arab donkey boys.
They hit upon the nationality of the stranger almost intuitively.
An American who had never been in Egypt before, was looking at the surging, struggling lot of donkey drivers with wonder, when one of them pushed forward and addressed him as follows:
“I’se looking for you, sah. Here he is; my donkey is the one Pasha Grant rode on; him called ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
“Get away with yer. Can’t yer see the bey will only ride on Hail Columbia?”
Seated on a donkey, Max entered the city founded by Alexander three hundred and thirty-three years before the birth of Christ.
Before a strange-looking, square, flat-topped house the donkeys halted, and Mr. Gordon bade Max dismount.
“This is home.”
“Do you live here, dad?”
“Yes, Max. We will rest here to-night, and go on our journey to-morrow.”
Max was delighted, and late in the day wandered alone to that wonderful monolith of granite called “Pompey’s Pillar.”
He sat down to think.
He had always been fond of books on Egypt, and now he was actually looking on one of the wonders of that old country.
Suddenly he heard a cry.
It was like a girl’s voice.
Max was up in an instant and trying to locate the sound.
He had no difficulty in so doing, for a girl—her face half covered with a white veil—rushed past him, shrieking and crying.
“Allah! Allah!” she shouted.
Two men were in pursuit.
Max never stopped to think.
He leaped forward, and without knowing why he did so, or whether it would be wise to interfere, he struck one of the Arabs to the earth, and threw himself against the other, who was a strong, powerful fellow, with muscles like iron.
That did not worry Max, for he was lithe and strong, but he was unaccustomed to foul play.
When, therefore, he found that the man he had knocked down had risen and drawn a long, sharp dagger, with which he threatened his life, Max saw the unwisdom of his defense of the Arab girl.
A muscular Arab in front of him, and another at his back brandishing a dagger, was enough to frighten an older man than Max.
The Arabs jabbered away in a gibberish which Max did not understand.
He struck at the man in front of him and made him stagger back, then with a quick movement, he stooped as he turned and caught the armed Arab round the legs, throwing him over his shoulder.
He had not disabled his opponents, so he thought discretion better than valor. Using his legs as well as he could he ran away, only to be stopped by the girl he had—as he thought—rescued.
She flung her arms round his neck, and talking rapidly—though in an unknown tongue to Max—held him fast until his pursuers were close upon him.
With a wild shout they seized him, and would have speedily rendered him insensible had not a deliverer appeared.
A man, bronzed and weather-beaten, though only in the prime of life, slowly and with deliberation took hold of one of the Arabs and flung him on one side.
Presenting a revolver at the head of the other, he commanded him and the girl to go, and that quickly.
“You have saved my life, sir,” said Max.
“Have I? Is it worth saving?”
“Perhaps not, but all the same I do not want to lose it.”
“Take care of it, then, and don’t go wandering about Alexandria without weapons.”
“What did they want with me?”
“They would have captured you, and held you until ransomed.”
“But——”
“You are not rich, you would say. What does that matter? A ten-dollar gold piece would seem a fortune to them. The girl practices that scream on hundreds of unsuspecting foreigners.”
“You speak of American money; are you from the States?”
“From them? Yes; but I am a citizen of the world, a cosmopolitan.”
“Might I ask your name?” inquired Max.
“You might; but it does not signify. If I have saved your life, prove that your life is of some value.”
The stranger left Max in one of the most frequented streets of that city where Cleopatra often rode, attracting the admiration of all to the savage beauty of that
“Queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold, black eyes;
Brow-bound with burning gold.”
Max wondered whether the stranger spoke truly, and almost was inclined to doubt, for he was at that age when the laughing black eyes of a girl fascinate and lure, sometimes to ruin.
Anyway, he was thankful for having been saved from the Arabs.
He saw that night how much his father was respected, but he saw that which made his heart sad. His father was bowed down with grief.
And no wonder. He had loved his wife with a passion as strong as his love of life.
When they had left New York with Max, a boy of only eight summers of life, all had seemed roseate.
Leaving Max at a school in England, Mrs. Gordon accompanied her husband to Egypt; but at the end of three years the malarious climate had rendered it impossible for her to live there, and she returned to England to be near Max.
For seven years the husband had only been able to spend three months in the year with the wife he so loved.
Then came the time when once more the mother of Max was ready to brave the treacherous climate of Egypt.
How the husband had looked forward to that time, and with what pleasure had he refurnished his house. Everything to please her was obtained.
Alas! her earthly eyes never saw them, and it was no wonder that Mr. Gordon should feel most wretched when he returned to his Oriental home, and knew that she would never grace it with her presence.
His only tie to life now was Max, but even with him there was anxiety, for the stern business man—the successful merchant had only seen the frivolous side of his son’s life.
To him he was the madcap.
To him the boy was the practical joker, the mischievous lad, whose thoughts were of fun and amusement.
Early next morning they took train to Cairo.
How strange it seems to the Biblical student, to think of traveling by a railroad in that country, so famous in Bible stories!
The comic rhyme of one who indulged in the ludicrous fancy of traveling by means of steam through Egypt and Palestine:
“Stop her. Now, then, for Joppa!
Ease her. Anyone for Gizeh?”
has come to be literally true, for Max heard the conductor shout out: “Gizeh—all out for Gizeh,” on the route between Alexandria and Cairo.
At the citadel of the narrow-streeted city, Mr. Gordon roused up, and told Max of the slaughter of the Mamelukes—that wonderful body of men who, from being slaves, became the rulers of Egypt.
“It was here,” said Mr. Gordon, “that when Mohammed Ali, in 1811, was organizing his expedition against the Wahhabees, he heard that the Mamelukes designed to rebel in his absence. He therefore invited their chief to be present at the investiture of his son with the command of the army.
“Above four hundred accepted the invitation. After receiving a most flattering welcome they were invited to parade in the courtyard of the citadel.”
“What for?” asked Max. “Did Mohammed want to impress them with his generosity?”
“No,” answered Mr. Gordon. “The Mamelukes defiled within its lofty walls; the portcullis fell behind the last of their glittering array; too late they perceived that their host had caught them in a trap, and they turned to effect a retreat.
“In vain.
“Wherever they looked their eyes rested on the barred windows and blank, pitiless walls.
“But they saw more.
“A thousand muskets were pointed at them, and from those muskets incessant volleys were poured.
“This sudden and terrible death was met with a courage worthy of the past history of the Mamelukes.
“Some folded their arms across their mailed bosoms, and stood waiting for death.”
“How brave!” ejaculated Max, in a low voice.
“Others bent their turbaned heads in prayer. But some, with angry brows, drew their swords and charged upon the gunners.
“It was of no avail. They were shot down, and the withering fire did its deadly work.”
“Did all perish?” asked Max, excitedly.
“Only one escaped.”
“How did he manage it?”
“Emin Bey—for that was his name—spurred his Arabian charger over a pile of his dead and dying comrades. He sprang upon the battlements; the next moment he was in the air; another and he released himself from his crushed and bleeding horse amid a shower of bullets.”
“What became of him?”
“He fled, took refuge in a sanctuary of a mosque, and finally escaped into the desert.”
“Is he dead?”
“What a question, Max! Emin was a middle-aged man at that time, and that is over seventy years ago.”
“Had he any sons?”
“I believe so. Why do you ask?”
“Because I would like to see any of his descendants. I would like to speak to them. It would be a proud honor to say, ‘I shook hands, or ate salt, with the grandson of Emin Bey.’”
“Why, Madcap, I never saw you so serious before!”
“Did you not, dad? Oh, I often get fits of that kind.”
Max laughed as he spoke, and seemed once again the merry, happy, careless boy.
“Depend upon it, Max, they are nothing better than slave hunters or pirates now.”
“I hope you are wrong, dad.”