One day a painstaking, obedient native officer had been selected by the Khedive Ismaîl to organize a riot hostile to the Frank commissioners. He seemed so trusty and discreet that Ismaîl forbore to execute him for the trifling service. Within two years he was the idol of the native soldiers, the spokesman of their grievances against the foreign Turks; in five, he was the incubus and dread of Egypt, first Minister of War and now Dictator. That first employment recommended him to schemers as one who did not fear to lead rebellion. Straightforward and excitable, extremely zealous in whatever charge he undertook, he was thrust forward by the clever ones to posts of hazard. His prompters, Asiatics, saw the bounds of his intelligence and thought to keep him in their hands, a priceless instrument. But they had not allowed for the inflation of the African, who, being once exalted, swelled and swelled until his greatness overawed its very founders.

An honest man and a good Muslim, Ahmad Arâbi lacked the cleverness of the conspirator; nor was he one. The sordid plots which guided his career were spun behind him; while he pressed onward with clear brow and conquering smile⁠—a doomed man, in the view of calm spectators.