hat he would not do in his
own country--dare not do?--One is so helpless--a woman! Under cover of
an old friend ship--ah!" She suddenly turned, and, before he could say
a word, disappeared inside the house. He spoke her name once, twice; he
ventured inside the house, and called, but she did not come. He made his
way to the veranda, and was about to leave for the shore, when he heard
a step behind him. He turned quickly. It was the Circassian girl, Mata.

He spoke to her in Arabic, and she smiled at him. "What is it?" he
asked, for he saw she had come from her mistress.

"My Lady begs to excuse--but she is tired," she said in English, which
she loved to use.

"I am to go on--to prison, then?"

"I suppose. It has no matter. My Lady is angry. She has to say, 'Thank
you, good-bye.' So, goodbye," she added naively, and held out her hand.

Kingsley laughed, in spite of his discomfiture, and shook it.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am My Lady's slave," she said proudly.

"No, no--her servant. You can come and go as you like. You have wages."

"I am Mata, the slave--My Lady's slave. All the world knows I am her
slave. Was I not given her by the Khedive whose slave I was? May the
leaves of life be green always, but I am Mata the slave," she said
stubbornly, shaking her head.

"Do you tell My Lady so?"

"Wherefore should I tell My Lady what she knows? Is not the truth the
truth? Good-night! I had a brother who went to prison. His grave is by
Stamboul. Good-night, effendi. He was too young to die, but he had gold,
and the captain of the citadel needed money. So, he had to die. Malaish!
He is in the bosom of God, and prison does not last forever. Goodnight,
effendi. If you, effendi, are poor, it is well; no man will desire your
life. Then you can be a slave, and have quiet nights. If you are rich,
effendi, remember my brother. Good-night, effendi. May sacrifices be
yours... and My Lady says good-night." Kingsley gave her a gold-piece
and went down to Foulik Pasha.

As they steamed away Kingsley looked in vain to the house on the shore.
There was no face at window or door, no sign of life about the place.

"Well, my bold bey," said Donovan Pasha to him at last, "what do you
think of Egypt now?"

"I'm not thinking of Egypt now."

"Did the lady deeply sympathise? Did your prescription work?"

"You know it didn't. Nothing worked. This fool Foulik came at the wrong
moment."

"It wouldn't have made any difference. You