in straight-flung words and few--"

"Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways,
Baulking the end half won for an instant dole of praise.
Stand to your work and be wise--certain of sword and pen,
Who are neither children nor gods, but men in a world of men."

Khartoum is the capital of the Soudan, but we have not arrived in the
Soudan yet. This great province was won from barbarism and brutality by
the English, who had trained and commanded the Egyptian army for the
purpose through years of heart-breaking work, and it is held jointly by
England and Egypt.

Then we arrive at Shellal, the station where the steamer waits, and in
a moment we are plunged into a turmoil of confusion and shouting.

The red sun is setting in a flame of glory over the great lake-like
expanse studded with black rocks; this is the huge dam or reserve of
water held up for the use of the crops when the Nile goes down. The
scene beggars description; bags, bundles, bales, boxes are pitched out
pell-mell. Gleaming black faces are lit up by the flames of leaping
fires lit on the sand. Petticoated porters thrust metal numbers at us so
that we may be able to recognise them again and reclaim our luggage
safely. We make our way to the steamer and mount to the first-class deck
and look down on the whirl of turbans and red fezes (also called
tarbooshes) below. The perpetual chatter, the long low cries, the
beating shout of men staggering under heavy loads make up a resounding
din. Clamped boxes, camp-chairs, enamel basins, dispatch-boxes,
helmet-cases are carried swinging up the gangway. Here is a man wildly
waving a gun-case which a non-commissioned officer wrenches from him;
another is struggling under a folded tent, the end of which catches on a
post and nearly precipitates him into the water. Black Nubian sailors in
white and blue jumpers are wrestling with an endless series of
mail-bags; third-class passengers, lost under piles of bedding, straggle
into a great barge alongside. In the midst of it all one sailor detaches
himself a little from the rest and drops down on his knees on the quay,
prostrating himself and bowing with his forehead to the ground; he rises
again, stands straight, with head erect, then down he goes again. He is
praying at sunset, as a good Mohammedan is told to do. No one notices
him or ridicules him. What would happen to an English sailor who knelt
to say his prayers on an English dock? We feel that