The truth
was clear to him, appallingly clear. Abdul Kader was not going to risk
his life; he would be the shuttle going backwards and forwards between
Omdurman and Suakin as long as Feversham cared to write letters and
Sutch to pay money. But the shuttle would do no weaving.
"I have nothing with which to write," said Feversham, and Abdul Kader
produced them.
"Be quick," he said. "Write quickly, lest we be discovered." And
Feversham wrote; but though he wrote as Abdul suggested, the futility of
his writing was as clear to him as to Trench.
"There is the letter," he said, and he handed it to Abdul, and, taking
Trench by the arm, walked without another word away.
They passed out of the alley and came again to the great mud wall. It
was sunset. To their left the river gleamed with changing lights--here
it ran the colour of an olive, there rose pink, and here again a
brilliant green; above their heads the stars were coming out, in the
east it was already dusk; and behind them in the town, drums were
beginning to beat with their barbaric monotone. Both men walked with
their chins sunk upon their breasts, their eyes upon the ground. They
had come to the end of hope, they were possessed with a lethargy of
despair.
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