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Page 5
"Any idea who he is?" (The soul of the copyhunter is a restless
soul.)
A group of men dressed in semi-European fashion--that is, in
European fashion save for their turbans, which were green--passed
close to us along the deck.
Ahmadeen appeared not to have heard the question.
The disturbance, which could only be defined as a subdued uproar,
but could be traced to no particular individual or group, grew
momentarily louder--and died away. It was only when it had
completely ceased that one realized how pronounced it had been
--how altogether peculiar, secret; like that incomprehensible
murmuring in a bazaar when, unknown to the insular visitor, a
reputed saint is present.
Then it happened; the inexplicable incident which, though I knew
it not, heralded the coming of strange things, and the dawn of a
new power; which should set up its secret standards in England,
which should flood Europe and the civilized world with wonder.
A shrill scream marked the overture--a scream of fear and of pain,
which dropped to a groan, and moaned out into the silence of which
it was the cause.
"My God! what's that?"
I started forward. There was a general crowding rush, and a darkly
tanned and bearded man came on board, carrying a brown leather case.
Behind him surged those who bore the victim.
"It's one of the lascars!"
"No--an Egyptian!"
"It was a porter--?"
"What is it--?"
"Someone been stabbed!"
"Where's the doctor?"
"Stand away there, if you please!"
That was a ship's officer; and the voice of authority served to
quell the disturbance. Through a lane walled with craning heads
they bore the insensible man. Ahmadeen was at my elbow.
"A Copt," he said softly. "Poor devil!" I turned to him. There
was a queer expression on his lean, clean-shaven, bronze face.
"Good God!" I said. "His hand has been cut off!"
That was the fact of the matter. And no one knew who was
responsible for the atrocity. And no one knew what had become of
the severed hand! I wasted not a moment in linking up the story.
The pressman within me acted automatically.
"The gentleman just come aboard, sir," said a steward, "is Professor
Deeping. The poor beggar who was assaulted was carrying some of the
Professor's baggage." The whole incident struck me as most odd.
There was an idea lurking in my mind that something else--something
more--lay behind all this. With impatience I awaited the time
when the injured man, having received medical attention, was conveyed
ashore, and Professor Deeping reappeared. To the celebrated
traveller and Oriental scholar I introduced myself.
He was singularly reticent.
"I was unable to see what took place, Mr. Cavanagh," he said. "The
poor fellow was behind me, for I had stepped from the boat ahead of
him. I had just taken a bag from his hand, but he was carrying
another, heavier one. It is a clean cut, like that of a scimitar.
I have seen very similar wounds in the cases of men who have
suffered the old Moslem penalty for theft."
Nothing further had come to light when the Mandalay left, but I
found new matter for curiosity in the behaviour of the Moslem party
who had come on board at Port Said.
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