fountain corner; the old men who watch the
slippers at the doors of the mosque with the
camel-drivers from Samanoud; the sycamore-fig
man wrangled over it with the donkey-boys; the
date-merchant, cross-legged on the open counter
of his store, argued it with the opium and
perfume-seller opposite, who had just risen from his
evening prayer; even the caller to prayer, just
descended, at sunset, from his balcony high up
in the minaret, stopped the rose-seller who was
passing in the midst of his cry, "The rose was
a thorn — from the sweat of the Prophet it
blossomed," to talk over the news of the great
Friday's levee in the citadel.

Everywhere, from Shoobra to Boolak, from
the fresh green fields under the shadow of the
pyramids to the great sacred sycamore-tree at
Heliopolis, the talk was about the Mamelukes
and the Wahabees. Even the naked shadoof-
workers lifting the yellow Nile water in their
creaking wheels strung with red pitchers were
talking politics, and praising either Mohammed
or Saim Bey. There was, indeed, no dim, damp,
narrow, winding defile of a lane where people
were not thinking or talking of the Friday; no
latticed window with a water-jug to cool in it
where women of the harem were not prattling
about the march of the Mamelukes.

Before dawn on the eventful Friday the
drums were rolling and beating all through the
city, in the green Uzbeekeyh, and on through
the bazaars, summoning the pasha's troops to a
grand parade. The notice was sudden, and
there was a rumour among the soldiers that
Tossoon Pasha was that day to be invested
with the pelisse of commander-in-chief. There
was therefore a great seizing of muskets and
cartouch-boxes, a great belting on of swords,
and adjustment of scarfs and sashes. The
companies hurried from their quarters to form
in the squares and open places, and were
instantly marched off to the citadel and placed
with extreme care in their respective stations.
The bim-bashis went down the ranks, and strictly
charged each man not to quit his post, on any
pretext, not even for a moment. Their muskets
were examined, and then carefully loaded.

The Mameluke procession of four hundred
and seventy horsemen soon came winding across
the millet-fields and lupin-grounds between the
pyramids and the Nile — along the raised earthen
causeways between the corn-fields and the
clover-fields. Their banners of yellow and crimson
fluttered brightly in the morning air. The
sun shone on the gold tissue that banded their
turbans, on their striped white silk robes, on the
golden flowers that studded their uniforms and
half covered their close-linked coats of mail.
The sunbeams of March, in Egypt clear and
burning, glittered on the embossed gold and
silver of their pistol-butts, the handles of their
handgars, the hilts of their Damascus
yataghans. Their saddle-clothes were stiff with
lace; their cartouch-boxes and huge stirrups
— even the bindings of their high saddles—
were gilt. A tulip-bed in a breeze, a summer
wind ruffling half a mile of poppies, present not
a more gorgeous sight. Young striplings,
beautiful as women, were there, proud of youth and
courage as yet untried, reining in their white
Arab stallions side by side with brown, scarred,
bearded veterans who had dashed their horses on
the bayonets of Napoleon's old fire-eating grenadiers,
and who rode grimly on, careless whether
it was a levee or a battle, so they got their
chibouk and opium at night, and their crust
and kibab at the regular hour. So they rode
on after the drums and banners, those four
hundred and seventy light-hearted, reckless
horsemen. A thunder-cloud hung over their
heads. On the face of one of them only
unheeded fell a slant sunbeam, and that sunbeam
was an unheeded omen.

With a fanfare of trumpets and a roll of kettle-
drums the Mamelukes' officers entered the
ancient city, and wound through its devious
defiles, under the high awnings, past the
fountains of the mosques, up, up towards the citadel.
They were led by three of their generals,
among whom Saim Bey was specially
conspicuous. At the gate they were received by
the Turkish and Nubian infantry with military
honours. They passed the gate, passed on
to the palace on the higher ground, between the
fortress walls studded with cannon. The
citadel dates back to the days of Saladin, even
to those of Amrou. There was a fortress there in
the times of the Pharaohs. It is, like other
fortresses, a series of covered ways between
bastion and bastion, alternating with open
parade-grounds. The four hundred and seventy
men threw themselves from their horses at the
steps that led up to Joseph's granite-columned
hall, shook the dust from their glittering robes,
adjusted their swords, pistols, and poniards with
warlike confidence, and entered.

The three chiefs were instantly summoned
into the Hall of Audience, where Mohammed
Ali sat with his favourite Albanian adviser, Hassan
Pasha, "a close contriver of all harms." The
pasha was, as usual, bland, grave, open-hearted,
clear-eyed, and serene of countenance. He
seemed even to dwell upon his guest's words with
an anxious curiosity at once unusual and flattering.
They talked of the Wahabees and the blows
that should be struck at them. Many compliments
and civilities passed.

Presently the pasha, growing graver, clapped
his hands, and Nubians entered with smoking
coffee-pots, gold trays, and little cups set
in gilt frames in the Turkish manner. Still
they chatted. Then more slaves in flowing
white entered with the long cherry stems and
the broad red clay bowls filled with that golden-
threaded tobacco of which the pasha himself was
so good a judge; for had he not once to buy and
sell it? They bring red-hot charcoal in silver
censers, and throwing themselves at the feet of
the Mameluke chiefs, swing round the pipe-stems
and present the amber mouthpieces to the
honoured guests. Just then, however, the pasha
rose from his divan, stroked his perfumed beard
with his white jewelled hand, thrust his feet
into his red slippers, and withdrew, as if to