It Is Early Morning, And The Sun, Lifting Above The Horizon, Throws The
Shadows Of The Khartoum Ruins On The Brimful Waters Of The Nile.
The old
capital is solitary and deserted.
No sound of man breaks the silence of
its streets. Only memory broods in the garden where the Pashas used
to walk, and the courtyard where the Imperial envoy fell. Across the river
miles of mud houses, lining the banks as far as Khor Shambat, and
stretching back into the desert and towards the dark hills, display the
extent of the Arab metropolis. As the sun rises, the city begins to live.
Along the road from Kerreri a score of camels pad to market with village
produce. The north wind is driving a dozen sailing-boats, laden to the
water's edge with merchandise, to the wharves. One of Gordon's old
steamers lies moored by the bank. Another, worked by the crew that manned
it in Egyptian days, is threshing up the Blue Nile, sent by the Khalifa to
Sennar on some errand of State. Far away to the southward the dust of a
Darfur caravan breaks the clear-cut skyline with a misty blur.
The prolonged beating of war-drums and loud booming notes of horns
chase away the silence of the night. It is Friday, and after the hour of
prayer all grown men must attend the review on the plain without the city.
Already the streets are crowded with devout and obedient warriors.
soon the great square of the mosque - for no roof could shelter so many
thousand worshippers - is filled with armed men, kneeling in humble
supplication to the stern God of Islam and his most holy Mahdi.
It is finished.
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