Affairs in England seemed critical,
and he would stay on to watch them, since any hint might be of import. In
London there beat the heart of the Empire, and he would keep his ear to
it. He heard most clearly through that trumpet, the endless roll of
London's traffic. Moreover, the great city, while she hardly nodded to
Sir George, smote him afresh with the spell which is hers alone. Oh to be
in London!

So dates moved past, and Sir George Grey, as he waned under the growing
load, realised that he and Greater Britain would be no more together.
That thought he parried, not liking to admit it, but the painter was cut
when he resigned his place in the Parliament of New Zealand. It had to be
done, therefore let it be done; but it was a shock, like losing a limb to
the surgeon.

A hail from Greater Britain became thrice welcome, and that of Mahomed
Naser Eben took Sir George by siege, especially its quaintness and
literary touch. When Governor of the Cape Colony, he sent word up-country,
by David Livingstone, that he would be glad of any manuscripts
throwing light upon the Greeks and Romans in Africa. To a British
man-of-war, making patrol of the Mombasa coast, there rowed out a boat,
having a respectable old Arab gentleman in the stern-sheets. He handed
up a parcel, desiring it to be delivered to Sir George Grey at Cape
Town. Sir George had left South Africa for New Zealand, and the
manuscripts, as the contents of the bundle proved, were sent after him.

'But nobody could read them,' he stated, 'until here, as I learn, an
Assyrian gentleman has been visiting Auckland. What is my surprise, on
opening this envelope, to find everything made clear in English,
including Mahomed Naser Eben's letter to me. He addresses me as a cavern
of hospitality, which is very handsome, and a phrase with a true Oriental
flavour. Unluckily, he appears to have got lost for two years in that
part of Africa marked Oman on the map. Hence a delay with him, in sending
the manuscripts, but he need not have apologised, my single feeling being
gladness that he discovered himself again.'

It was nigh forty years since Mahomed Naser Eben wrote, and in the
interval many skies had changed. Two had been apart, a sundered heaven,
the doing of that tragedy which ever lies in wait upon romance. But they
came together, as the clouds were gathering, and upon them the sun ray of
Mahomed Naser Eben could sparkle. Sir George had scarce mastered the
mystery of his