other lies, were it not for Claridge Pasha."

"It may be; but the luck was with me; and I have my way."

She drew herself together to say what was hard to say. "Excellency, the
man who was killed deserved to die. Only by lies, only by subterfuge,
only because I was curious to see the inside of the Palace, and because
I had known him in London, did I, without a thought of indiscretion,
give myself to his care to come here. I was so young; I did not know
life, or men--or Egyptians." The last word was uttered with low scorn.

He glanced up quickly, and for the first time she saw a gleam of malice
in his eyes. She could not feel sorry she had said it, yet she must
remove the impression if possible.

"What Claridge Pasha did, any man would have done, Excellency. He
struck, and death was an accident. Foorgat's temple struck the corner of
a pedestal.

"His death was instant. He would have killed Claridge Pasha if it
had been possible--he tried to do so. But, Excellency, if you have a
daughter, if you ever had a child, what would you have done if any man
had--"

"In the East daughters are more discreet; they tempt men less," he
answered quietly, and fingered the string of beads he carried.

"Yet you would have done as Claridge Pasha did. That it was your brother
was an accident, and--"

"It was an accident that the penalty must fall on Claridge Pasha, and
on you, madame. I did not choose the objects of penalty. Destiny chose
them, as Destiny chose Claridge Pasha as the man who should supplant me,
who should attempt to do these mad things for Egypt against the judgment
of the world--against the judgment of your husband. Shall I have
better judgment than the chancellories of Europe and England--and Lord
Eglington?"

"Excellency, you know what moves other nations; but it is for Egypt to
act for herself. You ask me why I did not go to the Effendina. I come to
you because I know that you could circumvent the Effendina, even if he
sent ten thousand men. It is the way in Egypt."

"Madame, you have insight--will you not look farther still, and see
that, however good Claridge Pasha's work might be some day in the far
future, it is not good to-day. It is too soon. At the beginning of the
twentieth century, perhaps. Men pay the penalty of their mistakes. A
man's life"--he watched her closely with his wide, benevolent eyes--"is
neither here nor there, nor a few thousands, in the destiny of a nation.
A man who ventures into a li