Constantine, and how many conquests
have been made in the name of God! But after other conquests there have
been peace and order and law. Here in Egypt it is ever the sword, the
survival of the strongest."

As he made his way down the hillside again he fell to thinking upon all
Faith had written. The return of the drunken chair-maker made a deep
impression on him--almost as deep as the waking dreams he had had of his
uncle calling him.

"Soolsby and me--what is there between Soolsby and me?" he asked himself
now as he made his way past the tombs of the Mamelukes. "He and I are
as far apart as the poles, and yet it comes to me now, with a strange
conviction, that somehow my life will be linked with that of the drunken
Romish chair-maker. To what end?" Then he fell to thinking of his Uncle
Benn. The East was calling him. "Something works within me to hold me
here, a work to do."

From the ramparts of the citadel he watched the sun go down, bathing the
pyramids in a purple and golden light, throwing a glamour over all
the western plain, and making heavenly the far hills with a plaintive
colour, which spoke of peace and rest, but not of hope. As he stood
watching, he was conscious of people approaching. Voices mingled, there
was light laughter, little bursts of admiration, then lower tones,
and then he was roused by a voice calling. He turned round. A group of
people were moving towards the exit from the ramparts, and near himself
stood a man waving an adieu.

"Well, give my love to the girls," said the man cheerily. Merry faces
looked back and nodded, and in a moment they were gone. The man turned
round, and looked at David, then he jerked his head in a friendly sort
of way and motioned towards the sunset.

"Good enough, eh?"

"Surely, for me," answered David. On the instant he liked the red,
wholesome face, and the keen, round, blue eyes, the rather opulent
figure, the shrewd, whimsical smile, all aglow now with beaming
sentimentality, which had from its softest corner called out: "Well,
give my love to the girls."

"Quaker, or I never saw Germantown and Philadelphy," he continued, with
a friendly manner quite without offence. "I put my money on Quakers
every time."

"But not from Germantown or Philadelphia," answered David, declining a
cigar which his new acquaintance offered.

"Bet you, I know that all right. But I never saw Quakers anywhere else,
and I meant the tribe and not the tent. English, I bet? Of co