In spite of the terrible warning provided by so great a smash there yet remain people who will argue that it is better to fall through Pride than to remain unfallen through lack of it.  By Pride, Pride is meant of course—­not Conceit, Snobbishness and Bumptiousness, which are all very damnable, and signs of a weak, base mind.  One gathers that Lucifer, Son of the Morning, was not conceited, snobbish, nor bumptious.  Nor was Moussa, son of Isa, Somali—­but, like Lucifer, Son of the Morning, Devil, he fell, through Pride, and came to a Bad End.

One has known people who have owned to a sneaking liking and unwilling admiration for Lucifer, Son of the Morning—­people of the same sort as those who find it difficult wholly to revere the prideless Erect when comparing them with the prideful Fallen—­and, for the life of me, I cannot help a sneaking liking and unwilling admiration for Moussa Isa Somali, who fell through Pride.

There was something fine about him, even as there was about Lucifer, Son of the Morning, and one cannot avoid feeling that if both did not get more of hard luck and less of justice than some virtuous people one knows, they certainly cut a better figure.  Of course it is a mistake to adopt any line of action that leads definitely to the position of Under-Dog, and to fight when you cannot win.  It is not Prudent, and Prudence leads to Favour, Success, Decorations, and the Respect of Others if not of yourself.  It is also to be remembered that whether you are a Wicked Rebel or a Noble True-Hearted Patriot depends very largely on whether you succeed or fail.

All of which is mere specious and idle special pleading on behalf of Moussa Isa, a sinful murderous Somali....

Most of the memories of Moussa Isa centred round scars.  When I say “memories of Moussa Isa” I mean Moussa Isa’s own memories, for there are no memories concerning him.  The might, majesty, dominion and power of the British Empire were arrayed against him, and the Empire’s duly appointed agents hanged him by the neck until he was dead—­at an age when some people are yet at school, albeit he had gathered in his few years of life a quantity and quality of experience quite remarkable.

’Twas a sordid business, and yet Moussa Isa died, like many very respectable and highly belauded folk, from the early Christians in Italy to the late Christians in Armenia, for a principle and an idea.

He was black, he was filthy, he was savage, ignorant and ugly—­but he had his Pride, both personal and racial, for he was a Somali.  A Somali, mark you, not a mere Hubshi or Woolly One, not a common Nigger, not a low and despicable person—­worshipping idols, eating human flesh, grubs, roots and bark—­the “black ivory” of Arabs.

If you called Moussa Isa a Hubshi, he either killed you or marked you down for death, according to circumstances.