"A madman," whispered High Pasha to Achmet the Ropemaker.

"Then his will be the fate of the swine of Gadarene," said Nahoum Pasha,
who had heard.

"At least one need not argue with a madman." The face of Achmet the
Ropemaker was not more pleasant than his dark words.

"It is not the madman with whom you have to deal, but his keeper,"
rejoined Nahoum.

Nahoum's face was heavier than usual. Going to weight, he was still
muscular and well groomed. His light brown beard and hair and blue eyes
gave him a look almost Saxon, and bland power spoke in his face and in
every gesture.

He was seldom without the string of beads so many Orientals love to
carry, and, Armenian Christian as he was, the act seemed almost
religious. It was to him, however, like a ground-wire in telegraphy--
it carried off the nervous force tingling in him and driving him to
impulsive action, while his reputation called for a constant outward
urbanity, a philosophical apathy. He had had his great fight for place
and power, alien as he was in religion, though he had lived in Egypt
since a child. Bar to progress as his religion had been at first, it had
been an advantage afterwards; for, through it, he could exclude himself
from complications with the Wakfs, the religious court of the Muslim
creed, which had lands to administer, and controlled the laws of marriage
and inheritance. He could shrug his shoulders and play with his beads,
and urbanely explain his own helplessness and ineligibility when his
influence was summoned, or it was sought to entangle him in warring