He was on the threshold of his
career: action had not yet begun; he was standing like a swimmer on a
high shore, looking into depths beneath which have never been plumbed by
mortal man, wondering what currents, what rocks, lay beneath the surface
of the blue. Would his strength, his knowledge, his skill, be equal to
the enterprise? Would he emerge safe and successful, or be carried away
by some strong undercurrent, be battered on unseen rocks?
He turned with a calm face to the door behind which sat the displaced
favourite of the Prince, his mind at rest, the trouble gone out of his
eyes.
"Uncle Benn! Uncle Benn!" he said to himself, with a warmth at his heart
as he opened the door and stepped inside.
Nahoum sat sipping coffee. A cigarette was between his fingers. He
touched his hand to his forehead and his breast as David closed the door
and hung his hat upon a nail. David's servant, Mahommed Hassan, whom he
had had since first he came to Egypt, was gliding from the room--a large,
square-shouldered fellow of over six feet, dressed in a plain blue yelek,
but on his head the green turban of one who had done a pilgrimage to
Mecca.
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