The Russ Incognito
"A skilful, efficient soldier is what the Khedive most needs," he announced slowly; "a man afraid of nothings—afraid not even of England—a soldier and a strategist to lead Egypt's armies to victory. Well, if His Majesty the Khedive's disinterested and loyal advisers suggest the proper man, it will be almost equivalent to an appointment."
"And—? Proceed, monsieur."
"May I venture to suggest that a certain Colonel Terence O'Rourke fills all the qualifications?"
"Ye do me great honor, monsieur."
For some minutes there was silence between the two. O'Rourke sat quietly smoking, his mind in a turmoil of thought; he saw a fair and newly prosperous country running with blood—as once India had run with blood, long years since. He saw brave men and true knifed, assassinated, stabbed in the back, that their places might be filled with others, their equals neither in morals nor in courage.
He saw—a number of things; and abruptly his mind was made up. He rose and bowed.
"It has been a very pleasant chat, monsieur," he said courteously. "Good night."
The prince got to his feet with a jerk, his eyes narrowing. "You are staying here?" he said. "Doubtless I shall have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow."
"Unfortunately," O'Rourke told him, "I am leaving Cairo at daybreak."
He turned away, but the Russian's voice gave him pause.
"I am to understand," said the prince, "that you refuse?"
"I can refuse nothing that has not been offered to me, monsieur."
"Be pleased, monsieur, to consider an offer made," suggested the diplomat silkily.
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