When Ali, mad with grief, demanded justice, he was told to hold his tongue. The general was profoundly grieved; he shed some tears, and swore that every honour should be paid to the remains. A telegram was sent to Yûsuf Pasha announcing that his son had died a martyr, and that the blessed body was upon its way to Cairo. Within an hour of death it had been dressed for burial. It was carried in a fine procession to the railway, where a special train⁠—a locomotive and an open truck⁠—was waiting. The corpse was laid down in the truck, and covered with some tent-cloth; and Ali sat beside it, while the train sped hooting on past empty villages, where only a few children played upon the dust-heaps, a few women stood in doorways with hands shading eyes, past palm-groves and the fields of cotton and of sugarcane until the citadel rose up before him in the evening sky.