"I didn't know much Arabic in those days, but we could hear the
Dongolese talk and talk in excited tones the whole night, the tall man
occasionally saying a few words.
"When we paraded before the large open-faced orderly tent next morning,
we were almost paralyzed to see Lord Wolseley himself seated at the
little table with Kitchener beside him, both in full staff uniform. A
tall, fine-looking Arab was being examined through the interpreter. He
didn't seem impressed by the glittering uniforms or the presence of the
Commander-in-chief, or embarrassed by their questions. Once or twice
an expression of surprise flitted over his face, but his eyes were
always fixed on Kitchener, who would now and again stoop and whisper
something in Lord Wolseley's ear. Once he raised his voice. The
prisoner heard its intonation and recognized him. With a fierce bound
the long, lithe Arab made a spring and was over the table, and had
seized Kitchener by the throat. There was a short, swift struggle,
Wolseley's eye glistened, and he half drew his sword. Kitchener,
athletic as he was, was being overpowered, and the Arab was throttling
him to death.
"There was a rush of the guard--and within ten minutes a cordon of
sentries surrounded the Mudir of Dongola's tent. Within three days he
was a prisoner in his palace at Dongola, guarded by half a battalion of
British soldiers.
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