were when I reflected that I was the only European in the Soudan who had fired a shot for Gordon, and that I was now a captive in the hands of the successor of the Mahdi, gazing at the ruined town from which, just eleven years ago, we had hoped to rescue its noble defender. I should be ashamed to say that when Awwad did at last come I was not in tears.
I felt more acutely than I did when first taken to Khartoum to be "impressed," and still more acutely than when I was hurriedly bundled into the old Mission to start the saltpetre works. For the first time since my captivity I had been left absolutely alone. I was sitting on one of that fleet of "penny steamers" which, had Gordon not sent down the Nile to bring up his rescuers, might have saved him and the Soudan in spite of the wicked delay resulting from the attempt to make a theatrically impressive show of an expedition intended to be one of flying succour to the beleaguered garrison and its brave commander, praying for months for the sight of one single red coat. Gordon, I had been told, towards the end, called the Europeans together in Khartoum, and telling them that, in his opinion, the Government intended to sacrifice him, recommended them to make their escape. A deliberate attempt to sacrifice him could not have succeeded better. What wonder, when such thoughts as these and many others had been affecting me for hours, that when Awwad came, as darkness was setting in, the darkness of night had settled too upon my mind. He, believing that my chains were the real cause of
