The prolonged beating of war-drums and loud booming notes of horns chase away the silence of the night.  It is Friday, and after the hour of prayer all grown men must attend the review on the plain without the city.  Already the streets are crowded with devout and obedient warriors. soon the great square of the mosque—­for no roof could shelter so many thousand worshippers—­is filled with armed men, kneeling in humble supplication to the stern God of Islam and his most holy Mahdi.  It is finished.  They rise and hurry to the parade.  The Emirs plant their flags, and all form in the ranks.  Woe to the laggard; and let the speedy see that he wear his newest jibba, and carry a sharp sword and at least three spears.  Presently the array is complete.

A salute of seven guns is fired.  Mounted on a fine camel, which is led by a gigantic Nubian, and attended by perhaps two hundred horsemen in chain armour, the Khalifa rides on to the ground and along the ranks.  It is a good muster.  Few have dared absent themselves.  Yet his brow is clouded.  What has happened?  Is there another revolt in the west?  Do the Abyssinians threaten Gallabat?  Have the black troops mutinied; or is it only some harem quarrel?

The parade is over.  The troops march back to the arsenal.  The rifles are collected, and the warriors disperse to their homes.  Many hurry to the market-place to make purchases, to hear the latest rumour, or to watch the executions—­for there are usually executions.  Others stroll to the Suk-er-Rekik and criticise the points of the slave girls as the dealers offer them for sale.  But the Khalifa has returned to his house, and his council have been summoned.  The room is small, and the ruler sits cross-legged upon his couch.  Before him squat the Emirs and Kadis.  Yakub is there, with Ali-Wad-Helu and the Khalifa Sherif.  Only the Sheikh-ed-Din is absent, for he is a dissolute youth and much given to drinking.

Abdullah is grave and anxious.  A messenger has come from the north.  The Turks are on the move.  Advancing beyond their frontier, they have established themselves at Akasha.  Wad Bishara fears lest they may attack the faithful who hold Firket.  In itself this is but a small matter, for all these years there has been frontier fighting.  But what follows is full of menacing significance.  The ‘enemies of God’ have begun to repair the railway—­have repaired it, so that the train already runs beyond Sarras.  Even now they push their iron road out into the desert towards their position at Akasha and to the south.  What is the object of their toil?  Are they coming again?  Will they bring those terrible white soldiers who broke the hearts of the Hadendoa and almost destroyed the Degheim and Kenana?  What should draw them up the Nile?  Is it for plunder, or in sheer love of war; or is it a blood feud that brings them?  True, they are now far off.  Perchance they will return, as they returned before.  Yet the iron road is not built in a day, nor for a day, and of a surety there are war-clouds in the north.