The boy forgot the portion of his blood which was derived from Fitnah Khânum, his paternal grandmother. It was Nile mud of the thickest, but it did not show in him. All hot and noble counsels moved him to enthusiasm; the lukewarm and the philosophical enraged his soul. Stupidity or insolence in an inferior he could not brook. If his commands were not obeyed at once and with intelligence, he struck hard with the first instrument that came to hand, and called down Allah’s wrath on the offender. The old Pasha was delighted by those outbursts, as showing the commanding spirit of his Turkish race.

“When all these lowborn troubles have passed over, we must procure him some small government,” he said to Yûsuf, who acquiesced with a pathetic smile. He had not that supreme contempt for the Egyptian rebels which kept his aged father calm amid the storm. He held a good position, and he feared to lose it; whereas his father had retired from public life.