All they felt he felt.

What their homes were to them, these fellaheen, dragged forth to defend their country, to go into the desert and waste their lives under leaders tyrannous, cruel, and incompetent, his old open life, his innocence, his integrity, his truthfulness and character, were to him.

By an impulsive act, by a rash blow, he had asserted his humanity; but he had killed his fellow-man in anger.

He knew that as that fatal blow had been delivered, there was no thought of punishment--it was blind anger and hatred: it was the ancient virus working which had filled the world with war, and armed it at the expense, the bitter and oppressive expense, of the toilers and the poor.
The taxes for wars were wrung out of the sons of labour and sorrow.
These poor fellaheen had paid taxes on everything they possessed.

Taxes, taxes, nothing but taxes from the cradle! Their lands, houses, and palm-trees would be taxed still, when they would reap no more.