A year had passed since a young, slight, and tall Dongolawi, Mohammed Ahmed, had marched through the villages of the White Nile, preaching with the fire of a Wesley the coming of a Saviour.

The passionate victims of the Turkish tax-gatherer had listened, had heard the promise repeated in the whispers of the wind in the withered grass, had found the holy names imprinted even upon the eggs they gathered up.
In 1882 Mohammed had declared himself that Saviour, and had won his first battles against the Turks.
"There will be trouble," said Trench, and the sentence was the text on which three of the four men talked.

In a rare interval, however, the fourth, Harry Feversham, spoke upon a different subject.
"I am very glad you were all able to dine with me to-night.

I telegraphed to Castleton as well, an officer of ours," he explained to Durrance, "but he was dining with a big man in the War Office, and leaves for Scotland afterwards, so that he could not come.

I have news of a sort." The three men leaned forward, their minds still full of the dominant subject.