Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 488
“But if I liberate her,” he said, “if I divorce her, you must marry her. That is what I have come to say.”
Utterly amazed and dumbfounded, Gordon could not at first find words to speak, whereupon Ishmael, mistaking his silence, said:
“You need not be afraid of scandal. My people know ‘ something about the letter that was sent into Cairo, but neither my people nor yours know anything of the motives that inspired it. Therefore nobody except ourselves will understand the reason for what is done.”
He paused as if waiting for a reply, and then said in a voice that quavered with emotion:
“Can it be possible that you hesitate? Do you suppose I am offering to you what I do not wish to keep for myself? I tell you that if that poor girl could say that her feeling for me was the same as before you came between us — But no, that is impossible! God, who is on high, looks down on what I am doing, and He knows that it is right.”
Gordon, still speechless with astonishment, twisted about to the desk, which was behind him, and stretched out his hand as if with the intention of taking up the photograph, but at that action Ishmael, once more mistaking his meaning, flashed out on him in a blaze of passion.
“Don’t tell me you cannot do it. You must and you shall! No matter what pledges you may have made — you shall marry her. No matter if she is of another race and faith — you shall marry her. She may be an outcast now, but you shall find her and save her. Or else,” he cried, in a thundering voice, rising to his feet and lifting both arms above Gordon’s head with a terrible dignity, “the justice of God shall overtake you, His hand shall smite you, his wrath shall hurl you down.”
Seeing that all the wild blood of the man’s race was aflame, Gordon leaped up, and laying hold of Ishmael’s upraised arms he brought them, by a swift wrench, down to his sides.
The two men were then face to face, the Arab with his dusky cheeks and flashing black eyes, the Englishman with his glittering gray eyes and lips set firm as steel. There was another moment of silence while they stood together so, and then Gordon, liberating Ishmael’s arms, said, in a commanding voice:
“I have listened to you. Now you shall listen to me. Sit down.”
More than the strength of Gordon’s muscles the unblanched look in his face compelled Ishmael to obey. Then Gordon said:
“You believe you have been deceived and wronged, and you have been deceived and wronged, but not in the way you think. The time has come for you to learn the truth — the whole truth. You shall learn it now. Look at this,” he said, snatching up the photograph from the desk and holding it out to Ishmael.
Ishmael tried to push the photograph away.
“Look at it, I say. Do you know who that is?”
At the next moment Ishmael was trembling in every limb, and without voice, almost without breath, he was stammering, as he held the photograph in his hand:
“The Rani?”
“Yes, and no,” said Gordon. “That is the daughter of our late General.”
It seemed to Ishmael that Gordon had said something, but he tried in vain to realise what it was.
“Tell me,” he stammered, “tell me.”
Then rapidly but forcibly Gordon told him Helena’s story, beginning with the day on which Ishmael came to the Citadel — how she had concluded, not without reason, that he had killed her father, he being the last person to be seen with him alive, and how, finding that the law and the government were powerless to punish him, she had determined to avenge her father’s death herself.
Ishmael listened with mouth open, fixing on Gordon a bewildered eye.
“Was that why she came to Khartoum?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why she prompted me to come into Cairo?”
“Yes.”
“Why she wrote that letter?”
“Yes.”
Overwhelmed with the terrible enlightenment, Ishmael fumbled his beads and muttered, “Allah! Allah!”
Then Gordon told his own story — how he, too, acting under the impulse of an awful error, had fled to the Soudan, leaving an evil name behind him rather than kill his dear ones by the revelation of what he believed to be the truth; how, finding the pit that had been dug for the innocent man, he had thought it his duty as the guilty one to step into it himself; and how finally being appeased on that point, he had determined to come into Cairo in Ishmael’s place in order to save both him from the sure consequences of his determined fanaticism and his father from the certain ruin that must follow upon the work of liars and intriguers.
By this time Ishmael was no longer pale but pallid. His lips were trembling, his heart was beating audibly. Again without voice, almost without breath, he stammered:
“When you offered to take my place you knew that the Rani — Helena — had sent that letter?”
Gordon bowed without speaking.
“You knew, too, that you might be coming to your death?”
Once more Gordon bowed his head.
“Coming to your death that I — that I might live?”
Gordon stood silent and motionless.
“Allah! Allah!” mumbled Ishmael, who was now scarcely able to hear or see.
Last of all Gordon returned to the story of Helena, showing how she had suffered for the impulse of vengeance that had taken possession of her; how she had wanted to fly from Ishmael’s camp but had remained there in the hope of helping to save his people, and how at length she had saved them by going to the Consul-General to prove that the pilgrims were not an armed force, and by ordering the light that had led them into the city.
Ishmael was deeply moved. With an effort he said:
“Then — then she was yours from the first! And while I hated you because I thought you had come between us, it was really I — I who — Allah! Allah!”
Gordon having finished, a silence ensued, and then Ishmael, looking at the photograph which was still in his trembling hands, said in a pitiful voice:
“God sees all, and when He tears the scales from our eyes — what are we? The children of one father fighting in the dark!”
Then he rose to his feet, a broken man, and approaching Gordon he tried to kneel to him, but in a moment Gordon had prevented him and was holding out his hand.
Nervously, timidly, reluctantly, he took it and said, in a voice that had almost gone:
“God will reward thee for this, my brother — for kissing the hand of him who came to smite thy face.”
With that he turned and staggered toward the door. Gordon opened it and at the same moment called to his servant:
“Orderly, show the Sheikh to the gate, please.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“No, I beg of you, no,” said Ishmael, and, while Gordon stood watching him, he went heavily down the stairs.
XIX
THAT night at the house of the Chancellor of El Azhar Ishmael was missing. Owing to the state of his health the greatest anxiety was experienced and half the professors and teachers of the University were sent out to search. They scoured the city until morning without finding the slightest trace of him. Then the servant who had attended upon him remembered that shortly before his disappearance he had asked if the English Colonel, who had lately been pardoned by his King still lived on the Citadel.
This led to the discovery of his whereabouts, and to some knowledge of his movements. On leaving Gordon’s quarters he had crossed the courtyard of the fortress to the mosque of Mohammed Ali. It was then dark and only the Sheikh in charge had seen him when after making his ablutions he entered by the holy door.
It was certain that he had spent the entire night in the mosque. The muezzin going up to the minaret at midnight had seen a white figure kneeling before the Kibleh. Afterward, when traditions began to gather about Ishmael’s name, the man declared that he saw a celestial light descending upon the White Prophet as of an angel hovering over him. There was a new moon, that night, and perhaps its rays came down from the little window that looks toward Mecca.
The muezzin also said that at sunrise when he went up to the minaret again the Prophet was still there, and that an infinite radiance was then around him as of a multitude of angels in red and blue and gold. There are many stained glass windows in the mosque of Mohammed Ali and perhaps the rising sun was shining through them.
Certainly Ishmael was kneeling before the Kibleh at eleven o’clock in the morning when the people began to gather for prayers. It was Friday and the last of the days kept in honour of the birthday of the Prophet, therefore there was a great congregation.
The Khedive was present. He had come early, with his customary bodyguard, and had taken his usual place in the front row close under the pulpit. The carpeted floor of the mosque was densely crowded. Rows on rows of men wearing tarbooshes and turbans and sitting on their haunches extended to the great door. The gallery was full of women, most of them veiled, but some of them with uncovered faces.
The sun, which was hot, shone through the jewelled windows and cast a glory like that of rubies and sapphires on the alabaster pillars and glistening marble walls. Three muezzins-chanted the call to prayers, two from the minarets facing toward the city, the other from the minaret overlooking the inner square of the Citadel, where a British sentinel in khaki paced to and fro.
While the congregation assembled, one of the Readers of the mosque, seated in a reading desk in the middle, read prayers from the Koran in a slow, sonorous voice, and was answered by rather drowsy cries of “Allah! Allah!” But there was a moment of keen expectancy, and the men on the floor rose to their feet, when the voice of the muezzin ceased and the Reader cried:
“God is Most Great! God is Most Great! There is no god but God. Mohammed is his Prophet. Listen to the preacher.”
Then it was seen that the white figure that had been prostrate before the Kibleh had risen and was approaching the pulpit. People tried to kiss his hand as he passed, and it was noticed that the Khédive put his lips to the fringe of the Imam’s caftan.
Taking the wooden sword from the attendant, Ishmael ascended the pulpit steps. When he had reached the top of them he was in the full stream of the sunlight and for the first time his face was clearly seen.
His cheeks were hollow, and very pale; his lips were bloodless; his black eyes were heavy and sunken, and his whole appearance was that of a man who had passed through a night of sleepless suffering. Even at sight of him and before he had spoken the congregation were deeply moved.
“Peace be upon you, oh, children of the Compassionate!” he began, and the people answered according to custom:
“On you be peace, oh, servant of Allah!”
Then the people sat and, sitting himself, Ishmael began to preach.
It was said afterward that he had never before spoken with so much emotion or so deeply moved his hearers; that he was like one who was speaking out of the night-long travail of his soul; and that his words, which were often tumultuous and incoherent, were not like sentences spoken to listeners, but like the secrets of a suffering heart uttering themselves aloud.
Beginning in a low, tired voice, that would barely have reached the limits of the mosque but for the breathlessness of the people, he said that God had brought them to a new stage in the progress of humanity. Islam was rising out of the corruption of ages. Egypt was having a new birth of freedom. God had whitened their faces before the world and in His wisdom He had willed it that the oldest of the nations should not perish from the earth.
“Ameen! Ameen!” replied a hundred vehement voices, whereupon Ishmael rose from his seat and raised his arm.
It was an hour of glory, but let them not he vainglorious. Let them not think that with their puny hands they had won these triumphs. Allah alone did all.
“Beware of boasting,” he cried; “it is the strong drink of ignorance. Beware of them that would tell you that by any act of yours you have humbled the pride or lowered the strength of the great nation under whose arm we live. Only God has changed its heart. He has given it to see that the true welfare of a people is moral, not material. And now, steadily, calmly, out of the spirit that has always inspired its laws, its traditions and its faith, it shows us mercy and justice.”
“Ameen! Ameen!” came again, but less vehemently than before.
Then speaking of Gordon without naming him, Ishmael reminded his people that some of the great nation’s own sons had helped them.
“One there is who has been our warmest friend,” he cried. “To him, the pure of heart, the high of soul, although he is a soldier and a great one, may Peace herself award the crown of life! Christian he may be, but may God place His benediction upon him to all eternity. May the God of the East bless him! May the God of the West bless him! May his name be inscribed with blessings from the Koran on the walls of every mosque!”
This reference, plainly understood by all, was received with loud and ringing shouts of “Allah! Allah!”
Then Ishmael’s sermon took a new direction. For thirteen centuries the children of men, forgetting their prophets, Mohammed and Jesus and Moses, had been given over to idolatry. They had worshipped a god of their own fashioning. That god was gold. Its temples were great cities given up to material pursuits, and under them were the dead souls of millions of human beings. Its altars were vast armies which spilled the rivers of blood which had to be sacrificed to its lust. As men had become rich they had become barbarous, as nations had become great they had become pagan. Islam and Christianity alike had had to fight against some of the powers of darkness which called themselves civilisation and progress. But a new era had begun and the human heart was raising its face to God.
“Once again a voice has gone out from Mecca, from Nazareth, from Jerusalem, saying ‘There is no god but God.’ Once again a voice has gone out from the desert, crying, ‘Thou shalt have no other god but Me!’”
At this the people were carried out of themselves with excitement, and loud shouts again rang through the mosque.
Then Ishmael spoke of the future. The world had been in labour, in the throes of a new birth, but the end was not yet. Had he promised them that the Kingdom of Heaven would come when they entered Cairo? Then let him bend his knee in humility and ask pardon of the Merciful. Had he said the Redeemer would appear? Let him fall on his face before God. Not yet! Not yet!
“But,” he cried, leaning out of the pulpit, with a look of inspiration in his upraised eyes, “I see a time coming when the worship of wealth will cease; when the governments of the nations will realise that man does not live by bread alone; when the children of men will see that the things of the spirit are the only true realities, worth more than much gold and many diamonds and not to he bartered away for the shows of life; when the scourge of war will pass away; when divisions of faith will he no more known; when all men, whether black or white, will he brothers; and in the larger destiny of the human race the world will he One.”
“That time is near, oh, brothers,” cried Ishmael, “and many who are with us to-day will live to witness it.”
“You, Master, you!” cried a voice from below, whereupon Ishmael paused for a perceptible moment, and then said in a sadder voice:
“No, with the eyes of the body I shall not see that time.”
Loud shouts of affectionate protest came from the people.
“God forbid it!” they cried.
“God has forbidden it,” said Ishmael. “I pass out of your lives from this day forward. Our paths part. You will see me no more.”
Again came loud shouts of protest — not unusual in a mosque — with voices calling on Ishmael to remain and lead the people.
“My work here is done,” he answered. “The little that God gave me to do is finished. And now he calls me away.”
“No, no,” cried the people.
“Yes, yes,” replied Ishmael, and then in simple, touching words he told them the story of the Prophet Moses — how by reason of his sin he was forbidden to enter the Promised Land.
“Many of us have our promised land which we may never enter,” he said. “This is mine, and here I may not stay.”
The protests of the people ceased; they listened without breathing.
“Yet Moses was taken up into a high mountain and from there he saw what lay before his people, and from a high mountain of my soul I see the Promised Land which lies before you. But to me a voice has come which says, ‘Enter thou not!’”
The people were now deeply moved.
“We are all sinners,” Ishmael continued.
“Not thou, O Master!” cried several voices at once. “Yes, I more than any other, for I have sinned against you and against the Merciful.”
Then raising his arms as if in blessing he cried:
“Oh, slaves of God, be brothers one to another! If you think of me when I am gone, think of me as of one who saw the coming of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth as plainly as his eyes behold you now. If I leave you I leave this hope, this comforter, behind me. Think that Azrael, the angel of death, has spread his wings over the desert track that hides me from your eyes. But pray for me — pray for me with the sinner’s prayer, the sinner’s cry.”
Then in deep, tremulous tones which seemed to be the inner voice of the whole of his being, he cried:
“Oh, thou who knowest every heart and hearest every cry, look down and hearken to me now! One sole plea I make — my need of Thee! One only hope I have — to stand at Thy mercy-gate and knock! Penitent, I kneel at Thy feet! Suppliant, I stretch forth my hands! Save me, O God, from every ill!”
The words of the prayer were familiar to everybody in the mosque, but so deep was their effect as Ishmael repeated them, in his trembling, throbbing voice, that it seemed as if nobody present had ever heard them before.
The emotion of the people was now very great. “Allah!
“Allah!”
“Allah!” they cried and they prostrated themselves with their faces to the floor.
