strange figure in threadbare dirty clothes and riding-breeches made by
shearing the legs of a long pair--cut with an unsteady hand, for the
edges were jagged and uneven, and the man's bare leg showed above the
cast-off putties of a policeman. The coat was an old khaki jacket of
a Gippy soldier, and, being scant of buttons, doubtful linen showed
beneath. Above the hook-nose, once aristocratic, now vulture-like
and shrunken like that of Rameses in his glass case at Ghizeh, was a
tarboosh tilting forward over the eyes, nearly covering the forehead.
The figure must have been very tall once, but it was stooped now, though
the height was still well above medium. Hunted, haunted, ravaged and
lost, was the face, and the long grey moustache, covering the chin
almost, seemed to cover an immeasurable depravity.

Dicky took it all in at a glance, and wondered with a bitter wonder; for
this was an Englishman, and behind him and around him, though not
very near him, were Arabs, Soudanese, and Fellaheen, with sneering yet
apprehensive faces.

As Dicky's hand dropped away from his pistol, the other shot out
trembling, graceful, eager fingers, the one inexpressibly gentlemanly
thing about him.

"Give it to me--quick!" he said, and he threw a backward glance towards
the approaching group--Fielding, the egregious Pasha, and the rest.

Dicky did not hesitate; he passed the pistol over. The Lost One took the
pistol, cocked it, and held it to the head of the waler, which feebly
turned to him in recognition.

"Good-bye, old man!" he said, and fired.

The horse dropped, kicked, struggled once or twice, and was gone.

"If you know the right spot, there's hardly a kick," said the Lost One,
and turned to face the Pasha, who had whipped his donkey forward on
them, and sat now livid with rage, before the two. He stood speechless
for a moment, for his anger had forced the fat of his neck up into his
throat.

But Dicky did not notice the Pasha. His eye was fixed on Fielding Bey,
and the eye of Fielding Bey was on the Lost One. All at once Dicky
understood why it was that Fielding Bey had shrunk from coming to Hasha.
Fielding might have offered many reasons, but this figure before them
was the true one. Trouble, pity, anxiety, pride, all were in Fielding's
face. Because the Lost One was an Englishman, and the race was shamed
and injured by this outcast? Not that alone. Fielding had the natural
pride of his race, but this look was personal. He