CHAPTER X.

THE PRISONER OF CEYLON.

ARABI BEY's home of exile stands about three miles out of Colombo. It is reached by a long dusty road, sometimes skirting the Indian Ocean, on whose cool margin brown figures stand dabbling the water up to their knees, and plying a fishing-rod. They do not seem to catch much, and are comically disproportionate, fishing with rod and line in an ocean that washes two continents. But it is a very pleasant way of getting through the day, having a wholesome appearance of work, without the accompaniment of blinding dust and dry untempered heat which harry those labouring by the roadside.

It is a very squalid quarter, the houses being mere huts thatched with palms leaves. Many of them are not six feet high, and the

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elders of the family crawl into them like animals returning to their holes. They have no windows, and have not reached the skilful contrivance of the Japanese, whose sliding shutters drawn back leave the domicile easy of access. There is a plain wooden shutter that contrives a double debt to pay, being a window by day and a door by night. When the Cingalese retires to rest this board is put up, and the arrangements are complete. There are plentiful chinks which admit air and some rays of light; but neither is a matter that seems greatly to concern the householder. Passing by day one can see crouching within the doorway father or mother; even oftener the grandfather or grandmother. In spite of insanitary household arrangements, the Cingalese seem to live to a ripe age, and wrap their years about them like a picturesque garment. Long grey hair, deeply furrowed faces, gleaming dark eyes, figures still upright, and the loose garment of gay colours worn with easy grace, make old age strikingly attractive.

There is no difficulty in approaching the prisoner of Ceylon. He has neither jailor nor guard, and is free to do what he pleases within the limits of the island. When we drove up he was sitting in the broad verandah which fronts the house-a heavy stone build

ing with nothing lovable about it. It stands in a garden which seems left pretty much to its own devices. These, as in all tropical gardens, take gorgeous turns. There are abundance of flowers growing in wild luxuriance, and just by the porch one English rosebush, timidly doing its best to maintain its ancient reputation amid its richer foreign brethren.

Arabi was dressed in a loose light-brown overcoat of unmistakable British make, with white duck trousers and waistcoat, and the inseparable fez. He was at work writing, with his back to the garden, and his face to the dead wall, which might with a little care bloom with jessamine, with the breath of which all the garden is sweet. He showed us his work a little later, displaying with childlike pride the laboriously made English characters by which he had spelt out "By-and-by," "A time will come," and other simple sentences, which formed his English lesson. His exercise-book had originally been designed for accounts, and he now filled the money column with Arabic phrase, translating it into English on the border line. As he opened the book he disclosed a couple of cheap New Year cards, the remembrance of unknown admirers in England. The litera

ture was execrable, but the gay colours seemed to please the Egyptian, and he evidently treasured them.

Two or three men in native dress were standing about the stables, which flanked one side of the house. A gentleman whom we subsequently knew as the interpreter advanced to receive us as the carriage entered the grounds. Arabi silently bowed a welcome, but did not seem inclined for conversation with casual strangers. Many passers-by call in, and he is not quite sure that all are friendly. We had an introduction from a trusted personal friend, which smoothed matters, and presently the cold suspicious manner was altered, and the silent man became loquacious. He has so far profited by his studies in English as to be able to carry forward simple conversation. He will soon pass by his interpreter, whose command of English is not extensive, the effort of translation causing him piteously to perspire.

Arabi had no objection whatever to discuss political affairs; but he even ostentatiously persisted in doing so from the standpoint of a permanent exile. Like Victor Hugo after the coup d'état, he has taken a solemn oath (perhaps superfluous in the existing circumstances) never to let his foot press the soil of Egypt while Tewfik reigns.

"Oui, tant qu'il sera là qu'on cède ou qu'on persiste, O France, France aimée, et qu'on pleure toujours Je ne reverrai pas ta terre douce et triste;

Tombeau de mes aïeux et nid de mes amours!

Thus Victor Hugo, in "Les Châtiments.” "I will never go back to Egypt as long as it is enslaved by Tewfik," Arabi says with unwonted access of animation. "I have no desire to see Egypt while it is a land of slaves. Once it was a country that smelled sweet to the nostrils; now it stinks. Its wells are covered with earth; there is no refreshment in it. Why does not England make Egypt free?"

Talking again of Tewfik, and contrasting him with his father, he said, "Ismail is a clever man, but a rogue. Tewfik is not clever enough to be a rogue: he is simply foolish. I do not think he knows the difference between right and wrong."

Of England, whose arms chased him from Alexandria and routed him at Tel-el-Kebir, Arabi speaks with unfeigned respect, and with an affectionate regard which, if not real, is well assumed.

"I hope to see England some day," he said. "I am learning English fast and write it too. Look here."

Then he brought out his lesson-book, and gazed with a pleased, fond smile upon his