Walter was startled from his meditations by a sudden rustling in the bushes, followed by a cry of pain or terror, not many yards from the spot where he was reclining. In an instant he was on his feet; and turning towards the point whence the sound came, Walter saw a very large cheetah (leopard), that had sprung from its covert on an Afghan child, and was trying to carry her off. The little girl was struggling and resisting with all her might, striking at the savage beast with her small clenched hand, while she loudly cried out for help. It was well that help was near, or the struggle would have been short, and its fatal issue certain. Walter had no weapon in his hand; but unarmed as he was, he dashed through the brushwood to the rescue of the poor child. His short and sudden rush was enough to alarm the cheetah, which seldom, if ever, attacks a man. The wild beast dropped its hold of its prey, and bounding off, escaped by some unseen outlet from the copse.
Walter went up to the child, and beheld the most beautiful girl on whom his eyes had ever rested. Excitement and the effort of the struggle had added a deeper crimson to her cheeks; her face was scarcely darker than that of a European. Large blue eyes, dilated with fear, fringed with long soft dark lashes, were raised towards her preserver with an eager wistful gaze. The girl's hair, in long rich plaits, fell over her bright redhurta, and was adorned with many a silver ornament. Walter was too well accustomed to Oriental taste to think the child's loveliness lessened by the numerous rings which weighed down her little ears, or even the jewel on one side of the delicately formed nose. The child was evidently no poor man's daughter.
The girl did not appear to be seriously injured; her loose sleeve was very much torn, and a few drops of blood fell from one of her arms. The attack and rescue had been the work of but a few seconds.
"You are wounded, my poor lamb!" cried Walter in the Pushtoo tongue, and drawing out his handkerchief he tore it into shreds to bind up the bleeding arm.
"Not a lamb—for I fought it; I struck it! If I'd had a dagger I would have killed it!" cried the girl with a fierceness which seemed strange in one so young and fair. "I'm an eagle, for I live in the Eagle's Nest!"
With childlike confidence the little Afghan let Walter bind up her arm, looking at him with a curiosity which seemed to overpower every other emotion.
"They say you're a Kafir," she observed; "you're not a dog of a Kafir, you are brave and you are kind."
"How came you to be in the jungle, my child?" asked Walter; "I never saw you till you cried out."
The child smiled as she answered: "You did not see me, nor did you see the cheetah. Wild beasts know how to hide, and so does the wild Afghan."
"Why did you hide?" asked Walter.
"I crept down to see what Kafirs are like. They told me that rich white Feringhees were going through the pass, one riding on a beautiful horse. I hope that the horse is not yours?" she added in a tone of inquiry.
"No, the horse is not mine," replied Walter.
"I am glad of that," said the girl.
"And why?" inquired the Englishman.
"Because I should not like to loot you."
"Ha! a secret let out!" thought Walter. "Do you think that poor travellers ought to be looted?" he said aloud.
"No, butrichones should," was the naive reply. "My father says there are big boxes all filled with treasure. He promised to change my silver bracelets for gold ones from the Feringhee's spoils."
Walter was almost as much amused by the frankness of the child, as alarmed by the information which she gave.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Sultána," replied the child, whose queenly manner suited her name. "Sometimes my father calls me his little eagle."
"And who is your father, Sultána?"
"My father is a bold chief, abara bahadar(great hero)," replied the girl proudly. "His foes all dread Assad Khan. When last he came back to the Eagle's Nest from a foray, I saw that two heads hung from his saddle-bow."
"You did not like to see those ghastly heads? you turned away?" said the English youth, his soul revolting from the idea of that beautiful child being connected with scenes of slaughter.
"Why should I turn away? Afghans like to see dead foes. I wish, when I'm old enough, that I could ride about and fight like the Turkystan women!"
"Now, Sultána, you say that your father is a chief. If we travellers came to his fort and asked for food and shelter, would he not give them?" asked Walter, who had almost finished his surgical task."
"Yes, Assad Khan would kill a sheep; he would feast the strangers; Afghans are kind to strangers," replied the girl.
"And your father would send them on their way in safety?" inquired Walter, who had a personal interest in the reply to the question.
"Yes, they would be safe, till they had gone a little distance," said Sultána, a smile rising to her rose-bud lips.
"And then?"
"Then, if they were rich, he would follow and loot them; if they fought—he would kill them."
"Oh, what fearful darkness broods over this land!" thought Walter, "when the very children are trained to delight in deeds of rapine and blood;" and he sighed.
"Why do you sigh?" said Sultána, more gently, laying her little hand upon Walter's. "My father would not cut off your head. You saved his little Eagle. I like you—I thank you!" and soft moisture rose in her large blue eyes as she uttered the words.
"Sultána, you have not thanked Him who sent me to save you," said Walter, gently caressing the small, sun-burnt hand.
"Who sent you?" exclaimed Sultána, glancing suspiciously around.
"The great God,—He whom you call Allah."
"Did He send you,—did He speak to you? when? how?" exclaimed Sultána, in great surprise, withdrawing her hand as she spoke.
"I did not hear His voice with my mortal ears; and yet, Sultána, I feel sure, quite sure, that He sent me here to save you. I came into this jungle thinking to be quite alone, that I might talk with God."
"How can you talk with Allah?" cried Sultána, the mystery exciting her curiosity, almost her fear.
"I tell him all my troubles," replied Walter; "I have had many troubles of late, and I thank Allah for helping me through them. I shall thank Him to-night for saving you from the cheetah."
"And does Allah answer?" inquired Sultána, her large eyes fixed inquiringly on the speaker.
"Yes, but in a way that you cannot understand. O Sultána, I am so glad that the Lord both hears me and loves me. I wish that you too would talk with God."
"The Moullahs don't teach us anything like that," observed Sultána; "they teach us to say 'There is one God, and Mohammed is His prophet.'" She repeated this moslem confession of faith with the enthusiasm with which its very sound seems to inspire the followers of Islam. "Is that what you want me to say?"
"No, my child," said Walter, very gently; "I want you to say such words as these: 'Allah! teach me to know Thee! Allah! teach me to love Thee!'"
"Love!" repeated the young Afghan, as if her mind could scarcely take in an idea so new. "We must obey Allah, and fast in the Ramazan (though my father doesn't), and those who want to be saints should go and walk round the black stone at Mecca. Butlove!why should I love Allah?"
"Because He loves you," replied Walter; "I can tell you, for Iknowit, what your Moullahs never have told you, thatGod is love."
At this moment, a peculiar sound, something like a whistle, was heard from the height above. Sultána started at the sound.
"They've missed me—they're seeking me!" she exclaimed, and with the rapidity of a fawn she sprang away, and disappeared as the cheetah had done, by some unperceived outlet.
It was useless to attempt to follow the child, especially as the sunset glow had given place to deepening twilight. With rapid steps Walter returned to Denis, whom he found smoking by the fire.
"What on earth were those strange noises that I heard a little while ago?" asked Denis, taking the cigar from his lips; "I heard something like a scramble and a cry, and you shouted from the thicket yonder, and there was, I think, a crashing of bushes. I'd half a mind to come and see what you were after. Did you rouse some wild beast from his lair?"
Walter gave a short account of Sultána's adventure, to which Denis listened with keen interest, bursting into laughter when he heard of the little maiden's intended appropriation of his horse; it was a very brief laugh, however, and by no means one of unmingled mirth.
"And now, Dermot, you see that we are watched, waylaid, that we shall certainly be attacked and robbed by these fierce mountaineers; you must resolve at once on what course to pursue."
"Sell my life as dearly as I can," muttered Denis, grasping one of his pistols.
"No; mount your horse, your good fleet horse, and make your way back with all speed, under the cover of night. Your animal is not knocked up like ours. He may at least bear you far enough to place you beyond immediate pursuit. You must of course abandon your property, and it may serve to satisfy for a time the rapacity of these wolves. I do not think that the muleteers, who will not attempt to fight, run any serious risk; they will merely lose the beasts. But you—you must not delay for an hour your escape back to India."
"Escape back to India!" exclaimed Denis, indignantly starting to his feet. "What do you take me for, boy? Do you think that I, Dermot Denis, am the man to run off from the shadow of danger like a cur that flies yelping away if you do but lift up a stone. Do you think that I am the man to endure being twitted with having begun an enterprise which I had not the spirit to carry out, a man to save his own neck by leaving his comrade to be murdered by these brutal Afghans!"
"My danger is less then yours," observed Walter. "In the first place I have the protection of poverty; in the second I have made friends with the child of a chief."
"What a bit of luck for us!" exclaimed Denis, in a completely altered tone, throwing himself again on the ground beside the glowing embers of the fire. "I certainly was born under some auspicious star! No sooner do I lose my rogue of a guide, than up starts a powerful chief to act both as guide and protector. Of course I'll be hand and glove with this Assad Khan; he'll introduce me at Kandahar as his most particular friend. Of course I'll make him no end of promises,—one must never be sparing of them. I'll tell the chief that when I get back to India, I'll send him my horse—a free gift—and half-a-dozen others loaded with jewels for pretty Sultána. I'll make it the chief's interest to stand my friend. I'll see more of Afghan life than any being in the world ever saw before. Stay, stay, I must write up my journal; where have I put my ink-bottle?"
Denis, now in wild spirits, wrote for about five minutes as if writing for life; he then threw down his pen, and pushed the paper from him. "That's enough for to-night, I shall have plenty of time to-morrow to write up my story."
"Will he have plenty of time?" thought Walter to himself. "Is not my gay, bold comrade beset with dangers not the less real because he chooses to shut his eyes as he takes the leap which may land him—one shrinks from askingwhere! I am the only Christian near him, the only being who can speak to him of that soul which may so soon be required. And yet, coward and faithless friend that I am, I sit, as it were, with lips sealed, watching his career towards the precipice over which he so soon may plunge with a laugh on his lips!"
"Dermot," said Walter, aloud; "even you must own that our lives are uncertain."
"Yes; it's a toss up whether you and I ever see old Ireland again."
"Is it not well to be prepared for whatever may happen?"
"Yes; I've looked both to my guns and pistols," was Denis's reply.
"It was not that which I meant. I was thinking of what follows death."
"You don't want me surely to set about making my will?" exclaimed Denis. "It is not needed; if I die my estate must go to my brother."
"I am not speaking of worldly property. I was thinking that you—that we both—need to know more of God's will, that we may be ready, should He please to call us suddenly." Walter took his small pocket Testament from his bosom. "I am going to read my evening chapter; would you have any objection to my reading aloud?"
"None in the world," replied Denis, lightly; "but I can't promise to listen."
Walter selected his chapter, and selected well. Never before had he so realised the force of the expression, "Preaching as a dying man to dying men." Walter knew that at that moment stealthy foes might be creeping towards them under the cover of darkness, or that his reading might be interrupted by a sudden volley from the thicket or the heights above it. But the feeling of peril which solemnised the young Englishman did not at all un-nerve him; Walter drank in the meaning of each life-giving verse which he read. His companion's perfect silence encouraged Walter, till—when he closed the book—he turned to look at Dermot Denis, and saw him sunk in a deep slumber.
Walter's strange interview with the child of the Eagle's Nest had strengthened the missionary spirit in the young man's breast. He went over in thought every circumstance of their brief meeting during the long hours of his night-watch. On this occasion Walter felt no disposition to sleep; physical discomfort, combined with mental anxiety to take away all desire for repose. The wind had arisen, and, rushing through the pass as through a funnel, extinguished the fire, put out even the hurricane-lamp, and chilled the frame of the young sentinel. Dermot Denis, with characteristic thoughtlessness, had appropriated the rug of his friend. Though the day had been hot, there was sharp keenness in the night wind, and young Gurney missed his usual protection. It was only by motion that he could keep up any degree of warmth. As Walter paced up and down, now facing the furious blast, now almost swept down by its violence, watching the wild lightning-illumined clouds above him, as they seemed in their rapid course to blot out star after star, Walter's spirit yearned over the Afghan child in the power of the king of darkness.
"One wearing almost the form of an angel is developing the instincts of a tigress," muttered Walter to himself. "Eyes that can express so much of feminine tenderness can look complacently at what a Christian girl would turn from with sickening horror! A heart made to reverence what is holy and love what is good, a kindly—yes, I am sure of it—a kindly affectionate heart, is filled with bigotry and pride, and a debasing hunger after plunder won by red-handed violence! Oh, what hath not Satan wrought in this miserable land; and not only here, but over the widest tracks of this fallen but beautiful earth! Millions of victims are lying in worse than Egyptian bondage, whilst those who could carry to them the message of deliverance are, as it were, quietly pasturing their sheep amongst the comforts of civilised life. Oh for the voice from the burning bush that gave His commission to Moses! Oh for the power to say to the murderer of souls—Let My people go that they may serve Me. Lord! how long, how long shall Thy servants rest in selfish indifference whilst generation after generation perishes in darkness and sin! If it please Thee to prolong my life, let it be the one object of that life to glorify Thee by rescuing souls through the power of Thy spirit; it is the object best worth living for—the object best worth dying for! Where does the fiery pillar lead the believer but along the path consecrated by the track of the Saviour's own footsteps. He came to seek and to save the lost."
Very fervently did Walter Gurney plead on that tempestuous night for Sultána and her guilt-stained race. The sense of personal danger was almost lost in the intense realisation of the spiritual peril of others. In wrestling supplication on that wild, stormy night the hours wore away. Walter felt himself in the immediate presence of One who could say to the wilder storm of human passion, the sweeping blast of satanic power,Peace, be still! Whatever outward circumstances may be, these are blessed hours that are spent alone with God; they are hours whose result will be seen through countless ages, when corresponding to the fervour of prayer will be the rapture of praise!
Walter had no difficulty on this night in arousing Dermot Denis. Partly on account of the boisterous weather, partly from anticipation of a possible attack, the young Irishman's sleep had been broken and disturbed. Ever and anon he would start, as if his mind were still on the watch.
"It's miserably cold!" said Denis, as he rose to take his turn as watcher. "The wind howls and yells and shrieks as if bad spirits were riding on the blast! This wretched rug is but a poor substitute for the fur cloak carried off by that Afghan thief!"
"It is a good deal better than nothing," remarked the shivering Walter, as he stretched his weary limbs on the cold, bare ground.
The wind lulled as the morning drew near, and Walter was able to sleep. Just at daybreak he was suddenly wakened by the loud report of a pistol—another and another. Springing to his feet, Walter beheld Denis struggling on the ground in the midst of a throng of fierce Afghans. Gurney rushed to the aid of his friend, but was instantly struck down by a blow from the butt end of a musket. Long Afghan knives were gleaming around; both the European travellers thought that their last hour was come. Resistance was hopeless, though Denis had wounded two of the robbers ere he fell overpowered by numbers.
"Kill, kill the Kafirs!" was the cry.
"Don't kill—keep us for ransom—take us to the chief Assad!" gasped forth Walter with difficulty, for an Afghan's strong hand was griping his throat.
The word "ransom" acted like a charm upon the assailants; it was passed from mouth to mouth, the thirst for gold overpowering even the thirst for blood. Happily neither of the Afghans whom Denis had shot were mortally wounded, or his life would assuredly have been the forfeit. His bold but useless resistance aggravated the severity of the treatment which he now received at the hands of his cruel captors. Both the prisoners were plundered of their watches, and Denis, who alone wore rings, had them violently wrenched from his fingers. He was stripped to the waist, the gold studs in his shirt exciting the cupidity of the Afghans, who hoped to find more treasure on the person of one so rich. Denis was struck on the face, having first been deprived of his handsome topi; his arms were tied tightly behind him, his struggles making the cords cut almost into his flesh. Then, as he lay writhing on the ground, the unfortunate traveller was brutally kicked by his persecutors, who laughed at the vain fury of their victim, who, in his own language, was pouring on them abuse and imprecations.
Walter, partly on account of his poverty, and partly on account of his quietness, had less to endure. When a rude robber was about to strip him of his well-worn coat, a younger and more pleasant-looking Afghan interfered.
"Leave him alone," said the young man. "I trow he is the son of the Santgunge Padri, who has shown kindness ere now to Afghans.
"I would not leave him the rag, Ali Khan," cried the man, "if it were fit for my wear. I shall find something better worth having yonder," and off he rushed to join the group who were ransacking Denis's trunk.
Walter was glad indeed to retain his garment, and with it his little Testament, and the leaves of his father's translation, to him a treasure more precious than gold. He, however, had his arms bound behind him, and received his share of Moslem abuse, in which Ali Khan did not join. The captives were witnesses to the glee with which their property was disposed of, not without a considerable amount of loud talking and wrangling over the spoils. The muleteers had fled at the first alarm; their animals were, of course, the booty of the captors. Two Afghans mounted on Denis's horse; how he longed to see it plunge and throw them! The trunks were cut open with daggers, and rudely emptied of their contents. There was a fierce scramble for the gold and silver; a bottle of brandy was surreptitiously carried off beneath the blanket of a follower of the False Prophet, a mountaineer who had learnt to appreciate the fiery poison. Denis's fine embroidered shirts caused a great amount of mirth, and were pulled overkurtas(vests) that had been worn day and night unchanged for years.
When the work of pillage was over, the prisoners were made to rise and accompany their captors to the copse in which Sultána had had her adventure. They were led through it to a steep and precipitous path which was familiar to the Pathans. With their hands bound behind them it was almost impossible for the Europeans to climb so rude an ascent, though both were agile men; but when they paused they were pushed and kicked by the Afghans behind them.
"You must have the use of your hands, Feringhee," said Ali Khan, cutting Walter's cords with his knife.
"Show the same mercy to my unfortunate friend, brave youth!" cried Walter, the sufferings of Denis distressing him more than his own.
"He has shed the blood of my kinsmen; he shall never find mercy from me!" was the stern reply of Ali Khan. "He is like the wild beast that struggles and bites when caught in the snare; thou art calm as a man who submits to fate."
It was a matter of surprise to Walter himself, as well as to the young mountaineer, that he could preserve such composure under circumstances so painful. We need not seek far for the cause of such calmness. One who habitually looks to the fiery cloudy pillar for guidance, finds that it gives light in the darkest night of trial, shade under the fiercest glow of temptation. All that the Christian holds most dear is beyond the reach of robbers; he can never lose his all. What marvel if that man is patient who knows that all things work together for his good,—and brave when assured that death itself is but the angel that uncloses the gate of paradise.
It was far otherwise with the miserable Denis, who, on account of his bonds, was utterly unable to keep up with Walter and the foremost Afghans, who soon passed beyond his view. As he could not help himself with his hands, his tumbles and slips on a path which at some places "scarce gave footing for the goat," afforded his tormentors a cause for mirth and added brutality. When, after a painful fall of several feet, Denis obstinately refused to move, he was goaded to stagger again to his feet by the points of daggers.
"Hell itself could not be worse than this! Hell must be like this!" groaned the tortured man. "The company of tormenting demons, the memory of past joys lost for ever, and the fierce anguish of knowing that my own mad folly has brought me to this,—earth has no misery like mine." Passages from Scripture hardly ever recurred to the mind of the spoilt child of fortune; but in his anguish Denis did think of one who had been clothed in purple and fine linen, one who had fared sumptuously every day, and at last had to make his bed in the flames. The idea did flash across Denis's mind, "My fate is something like his."
The savage Pathans had at last to cut the bonds of Denis; but not from pity, but a selfish fear that their captive, by dying on the way, might escape from their hands without paying a ransom. The latter part of that terrible journey was to Denis like a horrible dream. It was in an almost swooning state that the once splendid-looking young Irishman was led into the rough hill-fort which, from its lofty position, was called the Eagle's Nest.
A person of weak constitution might have sunk under such sufferings as Dermot Denis had had to endure; but he had a strong and vigorous frame. Walter, who had arrived some time before him, and who saw almost with horror the state of his unfortunate friend, as Denis sank on the floor beside him, was surprised at the rapidity with which the Irishman rallied when he had drained the contents of an earthen vessel which Walter held to his lips.
"I'll live to be revenged on them yet," cried Denis, raising himself to a sitting position, and shaking back the clotted hair from his bruised and bleeding brow.
Walter did all he could for his comrade, but that all was little, as he himself was in a destitute state. He pulled off his own shooting-coat to cover Denis, and by entreaties persuaded Ali Khan to bring a fresh supply of water, which he used in bathing the sufferer's hurts.
Denis surveyed his prison, more to see what chance it afforded him of future escape than what it could yield of present comfort.
Comfort! the word is a mockery! The room, or den, as Denis called it, was about twelve feet square, on an upper storey in the fort. There was a hole on the north side, about five feet above the floor, which admitted air and light; of course it was unfurnished with glass—in that place a luxury unknown. There was not even a scrap of matting on the dirty floor, not an article of furniture of any description; no fittings, unless one strong iron hook, which seemed to have been built into the stone wall, could be reckoned as such. Opposite to the hole was a door, which opened on a kind of ladder-stair which led down into the open court-yard. This court-yard was an irregular square; the side opposite to the prison was bounded by a high strong wall, loop-holed for muskets, with a massive gate in the centre, the only means of access to the fort. The remaining three sides of the quadrangle were supported by rude pillars of unhewn stone, supporting the upper storey. Under these pillars were open recesses, which seemed to be the common abode of the inhabitants of the fort and such animals as they possessed. The cow and her calf, sheep kept for slaughter, poultry, their half-starved dogs, women busy at their small primitive spinning-wheels, or engaged in cooking operations, men smoking their bubbling hookahs, or cleaning their arms, dirty children wearing more jewels than clothes, occupied these recesses, or the open space of the court. In the centre of all was the well, indispensable in a fort which might any day have to stand a siege in that land of blood-feuds and broils. A medley of sounds arose from the courtyard, barking and bleating, singing and swearing, the crow of the cock and the cry of the child. Such was the scene which the captives surveyed through the open door of their prison.
The view from the window, or rather aperture in the wall, was of a precipice, dotted here and there with thin clumps of brushwood—a precipice so deep that the dwellers in the Eagle's Nest defied an enemy to attack from that side, or a prisoner to make his escape. The window commanded a wild and picturesque view, but the captives were in no mood to think much of scenery then. They saw their den draperied with cobwebs, which had hung undisturbed for many long years. Insects crawled over the uneven floor and up the rude stone walls, and the air was alive with mosquitoes. The place presented a terrible contrast to Denis's luxurious home in his own green isle.
Even the gloomy privacy and silence of a prison were unattainable luxuries here. The door of the room occupied by the captives opened from the outside, and Ali Khan, after bringing the water, had unfortunately left it open. A fit of curiosity was on the residents of the fort. Afghans crowded up the narrow ladder-stair to gaze at the unfortunate Feringhees, and load them with insults. The room was crowded almost to suffocation with rude men and mocking, grinning children; whilst women, staring up from the court-yard, added their laughing comments on the appearance of the captives above. Walter endured the annoyance in silence; Denis hurled back insult for insult, but happily neither he nor his tormentors understood each other's terms of abuse. This misery lasted for nearly an hour, when happily some arrival in the Eagle's Nest diverted the attention of the intruders, and the Afghans swarmed down the ladder-staircase as hastily as they had swarmed up.
"Walter, a week of this would drive me stark mad!" exclaimed Denis.
"I will ask our good-natured Ali Khan to close the door when he comes next time," said Walter; and as he spoke the young Afghan appeared with the prisoners' food. This food consisted of a loaf, or rather lump of black bread, most repulsive in appearance, only half-baked, and the flour of which it was made mixed with bits of straw and grains of sand.
"That stuff is not fit for hounds!" exclaimed Denis; "the very pigs would despise it! I've a mind to fling it back at the fellow's head!"
"Do not make an enemy of the only being who has shown a grain of humanity!" cried Walter. "I suppose that as regards our food, prisoners must not be choosers." Then turning towards Ali Khan, young Gurney with courtesy inquired who had just arrived in the fort.
"My uncle, our brave chief, Assad Khan."
Denis caught the sound of the name, and his whole countenance brightened.
"Then it is as I hoped!" he exclaimed; "we are in the hands of a gallant warrior whom we have laid under deep obligation, and who will be delighted to serve us. It is the old story of Androcles and the lion,—gratitude is the one virtue of savages and wild beasts."
"I hope not confined to them," said Walter; "nor would I have you build your hopes too high on the gratitude of an Afghan."
"Bid Ali Khan tell his chief that the preserver of his child is here, and with him his friend, able and willing to reward liberally all who serve him faithfully. And let him tell Assad Khan that the first favour which I shall ask at his hands is that he should soundly bastinado the ruffians who have robbed, insulted, and imprisoned me here."
Walter translated but a portion of Denis's speech, adding a request to Ali Khan that the prisoners might not be subjected to sudden inroads from crowds, at least till the captives had been granted an interview with the leader.
"I will lock you in," said the youth, "and give the key to no one unless the chief demands it."
The closing of the door was not an unmixed advantage, as it lessened the circulation of air, and excluded from the captives all view of the courtyard. Yet anything, at the time, seemed better than the inroad of Afghan intruders.
Walter took up the black bread, and breaking it into two equal portions, gave one to his comrade. "We need our breakfast," said he.
"You will hardly give thanks over it," observed Denis, with a look of disgust.
"I shall give thanks, heartfelt thanks," replied Walter, with animation, "not merely for food, but for preservation in imminent danger from sudden and violent death!" and, with the bread in his hand, he sank on his knees. Denis, solemnised for a while, intuitively followed his comrade's example, and if he did not feel all the gratitude which warmed the breast of his friend, he could at least heartily join in Walter's prayer for help and deliverance. It was perhaps the first time in Dermot's life that he had actually prayed; and even now his desires did not rise above earth.
Thankful to have seen Denis for once on his knees, and hopeful that to him tribulation might prove "an angel in disguise," Walter ate his wretched food with something like relish. Denis was weary and hungry, and left not a crumb of what he had judged unfit for hounds. Both the prisoners then found in the sleep of exhaustion a short respite from trouble.
The rest of the day was spent by Denis in feverish impatience for the visit of the chief from which he hoped so much. He set diligently to work to learn from Walter words and phrases in Pushtoo, finding his ignorance of the language a perpetual source of annoyance. Denis tried to get up speeches full of flowery compliments, and containing splendid offers, which he assured his companion that no Oriental could resist.
"I should like to have met the chief in a costume more befitting a man of position," said Denis, passing his hand through his thick curly hair for want of his ivory comb. "This wretched coat of yours is so tight! made for a slender stripling like you, I can't stir my arms for bursting the seams—it's like a straight-jacket for a madman! I'd give something for a scarlet uniform, with epaulettes and gold lace. With my battered face, and a coat like this, I look like a ragamuffin!"
Walter could not help smiling at the handsome Irishman's pathetic complaint.
Denis strode up and down the narrow apartment, exclaiming against the heat and the mosquitoes, and often pausing before the hole of a window to measure with his eye the depth of the precipice below, and calculate the possibility of a descent. He always turned away disappointed, yet in a few minutes was at the aperture again. As long as enough of daylight remained, Walter occupied himself with his father's translation, amidst frequent interruptions from Denis.
"It is growing quite dark!" cried the Irishman. "This interminable day is coming at last to an end. I wonder what has become of the chief; I thought he'd have hurried to see us at once."
"He is coming now," observed Walter Gurney; "do you not hear voices approaching—yes, there are feet on the stairs."
Slow turns the grating key—the door is thrown open, and a party of Afghans enter, the foremost the chief himself. A very striking figure was that of Assad Khan, as seen by the light of torches carried by his attendants. Though not so tall as either of his captives, he looked the very type of the chief of a robber horde. Most of the Pathans had skull-caps over their wild black hair, but Assad Khan wore a magnificent turban, with a border and fringe of gold. A red Cashmere shawl fell in rich folds over the chief's broad shoulders, another was wrapt as a girdle round his waist, and in it was stuck a jewelled hilted dagger. Assad Khan was a powerful-looking man; pride was in the glance of his eye, and his step was as that of a desert lion. He surveyed his prisoners with a keen and piercing gaze.
Dermot Denis, nothing daunted, began his studied speech in the most broken Pushtoo; Assad Khan impatiently cut him short. The Afghan turned towards the only prisoner who could understand him, and began the conversation by a series of rapid questions, which Walter answered as well as he could. Denis, with eager eyes, turned from the one speaker to the other, straining his attention to catch the meaning of what was said, and longing to put in a word.
"You say that you do not know this man's object in going to Kandahar?" asked the chief.
"He's talking of me—what does he say?" cried Denis; Walter interpreted the question, which Denis hastened to answer himself.
"Friendship—very great friendship—Kandahar big noble prince!" said the Irishman, using the few words he knew, without much regard for truth.
"The chief of Kandahar is the mortal foe of Assad Khan!" exclaimed the Afghan, striking the ground fiercely with the musket which he held in his hand.
The gesture and the savage expression on the chief's face, more than his partially understood words, showed Denis that he had made an unfortunate blunder. He was obliged to fall back on his interpreter, Walter.
"Tell him that if it be impossible for me, with his generous aid, to pursue my journey amongst the most noble, most respectable, hospitable—don't spare your superlatives, Walter—hospitable people of this land, I would wish to return to India. I am ready to pay a ransom."
Walter explained the general purport of what his companion had said. Assad Khan replied in a haughty tone, "Tell him, that the stranger who comes unbidden into our land with secret designs, is likely to find his grave amidst our mountains. However, he being rich, may purchase my mercy." The robber named as ransom a most exorbitant sum, adding, with a stern smile, "If it be paid I'll throw your freedom into the bargain; you were of some service to a child of our race."
When Walter translated the chief's reply to Denis, the warm-tempered Irishman could not refrain from a burst of indignation at the cupidity of his captor.
"The unconscionable thief! he would ruin a Crœsus! he sells his black bread dear with a vengeance! Tell him I'm poor——"
"I cannot say that," observed Walter.
"You must meet a man on his own ground," cried Denis impatiently; "we are in the land of liars and thieves!"
"Does the Kafir agree?" asked the chief.
Walter did his best to negotiate more reasonable terms, but Assad Khan, stood firm to his offer. He knew the captives to be completely within his power, and had experience in the art of extracting gold by ill-treatment, and even torture.
"To comply with my demand is your only chance of leaving this fort alive," said Assad Khan, turning towards Denis, and making his meaning almost intelligible by his significant gestures. "Do not dream of escape. I had a Jewish merchant in this very room. He flinched from paying the ransom which I demanded; perhaps the fox was not able to pay it. He made an attempt to get out, was caught, was flogged within an inch of his life. After awhile the madman tried the same thing again. Do you see yon hook?"—the chief pointed to the one in the wall; "I had him hanged by the neck from that hook, and that was the end of his story, as it will be of yours if you follow his example."
The Afghans who had entered the room with their chief, or stood on the ladder outside, burst into rude laughter at remembering the murder of the unfortunate Jew.
"Have you never heard what the Beloochees did with the Feringhee doctor who ventured amongst them?" pursued the chief. "Did they not believe that if they killed him, his body would be changed into ducats? and so he was slain in his bed, and his corpse hung up for fifteen days. The Beloochees finding this was in vain, cut up the doctor's papers into little bits, and mixed them with the mortar of a house which the chief was building, in hopes that it would presently be adorned with a layer of gold.* I have more faith in getting gold from a live Feringhee than a dead one, or I might take a lesson from the Beloochees." Assad Khan laughed, and his followers echoed his laugh.
* This horrible story is given as afactby the traveller, General Ferrier.
"Bid him send for paper and ink. I'll write to Calcutta for money; anything, anything to get out of this den of bloodthirsty tigers!"
Writing materials were readily produced. Denis had difficulty in tracing intelligible letters with the reed pen, and though he was a very courageous man, his hand was scarcely as steady as usual. A short note, however, was written, which the suspicious Assad Khan made Walter translate twice over before he gave it to an Afghan who was to bear it to the nearest Government official in India, who would transmit it to Calcutta.
As the chief now looked contented, and almost good-humoured, Walter took occasion to complain of the wretched food, and of the rude insolence to which the captives had been subjected. He appealed to the chief's better feelings, in hopes that such might exist. Denis made his companion translate a request that the door which communicated with the court-yard might now be left open, but the Afghans be strictly prohibited from invading the privacy of the captives.
This trifling boon was readily accorded. Assad Khan also promised that better food should be sent. He remained for some time longer in conversation with Walter, the chief gratifying his curiosity by asking many questions regarding India and England, and trying pertinaciously to find out why the Kafirs had entered his country. He declared that they must be Government spies.
At last the long interview came to a close. The chief and his followers descended the stairs, and almost till midnight might be seen in the courtyard smoking hookahs, telling stories, and singing their wild native airs.
As soon as the last Afghan had quitted the prison, Denis gave full vent to the indignation which was boiling over in his breast, certainly not sparing his superlatives, which were by no means of a kind complimentary to the Afghans.
"I'll not pay a rupee—not a pice of the ransom to fatten these rogues!" he exclaimed. "I'm no wretched Jew to be tortured and hanged! I'll make my escape from these thieves!"
"I fear that you will find escape impossible," said Walter.
"Impossible! there's not such a word in my grammar. To men with quick brain and strong arm there's nothing impossible!" cried Denis. "I shall certainly make an attempt to get off, and if the ruffians murder me, I'll just see what vengeance the English will take! Don't you feel a thirst for revenge?" he asked, turning with clenched hand towards Walter.
"The only revenge for which I thirst, is to see these fierce robbers transformed into civilised Christians," was the young man's reply.
"As well might tigers be transformed into lambs! Such changes can never be!" exclaimed Denis.
"Such changeshavebeen, andmaybe again," said the missionary's son. "To One who is all-wise and all-powerful too, there is nothing impossible—even an Afghan's conversion!" Walter turned and gazed through the aperture on the glittering stars in the deep blue sky, and added, though not aloud, "Such changes will be, though the time may be far distant, for it is written in the Word of Truth,The earth shall be full of the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea."
"This is the Lord's Day," said Walter, with a touch of sadness in his tone as he rose on the following morning from his comfortless resting-place on the bare and dirty floor.
"Sunday, is it, only Sunday?" exclaimed Denis; "I feel as if weeks had passed since we started on our luckless expedition. If we measured time by misery, we might count the days as years! What a different Sunday this will be from those I once enjoyed!"
The same thought was passing through the mind of Walter. Each of the young men was thinking of scenes that might never again meet their eyes. Before Walter came the image of the small native church, with the little band of Christians whom his father had been the instrument of gathering from the heathen around them. In fancy, Walter heard the tinkling bell that summoned to worship; then the hymn, not very harmonious, but so heartily sung that it warmed the listener's heart. The image of his father, pale, thin, prematurely grey, but with heaven's own peace on his face, rose before the mind's eye of the youth; Walter could almost hear the accents, not strong, but thrilling, which told of the unspeakable bliss of the bright abode upon whose threshold he stood. Walter could not suppress a sigh.
And memory drew also a sigh, and a heavy one, from Dermot Denis. He thought of merry shooting parties over Erin's green fields, or games of billiards in his own luxurious home. Then fancy wandered to London, and he was again in Hyde Park, amongst the equestrians in Rotten Row, meeting acquaintances at every turn, bowing, laughing, making his horse curvet, with a pleasant consciousness that he himself was, perhaps, the most striking figure amongst the fashionable throng. Or there was a drive in a four-in-hand with jovial companions to feast at Richmond. Ah! the thought of a feast to an almost famished man, who had nothing but black bread to eat! For Assad Khan had either forgotten his promise to send better food, or had deliberately broken it, choosing to keep down the strength and spirit of his captives by bringing them to a state of semi-starvation. This was all the more irritating as there were no signs of scarcity in the court-yard which the prisoners' room overlooked.
An hour after rising, Walter seated himself, Oriental fashion, directly in front of the open door. His appearance called forth a few insults and jests from the Afghans below, and fragments of melon-rind were thrown at his head; but, restrained by the orders of the chief, no one dared to set a foot on the ladder. Insult was also changed to sudden silence when the prisoner began to chant verses aloud, to the wild, monotonous air of an Indianbhajan. Walter's voice was a very fine one, and the sound drew immediate attention. The woman at her wheel, the bihisté* drawing water, the warrior burnishing his weapon or smoking his hookah, listened to the Feringhee minstrel; the very children left their play to cluster around the foot of the ladder. When, after about ten minutes, the singer paused, a clamour arose of "Go on!"
* Water-carrier.
"He's a strange fellow who sings when others would curse or groan," said one of the wild denizens of the mountains. "The Feringhee may be shot or hanged to-morrow, but he sings like one at a wedding-feast."
Walter took care not to weary his audience; at the first signs of restlessness amongst his hearers, he rose and retired from their view.
"I say, Walter, what was that extraordinary chant with which, like a second Orpheus, you were taming the beasts?" asked Denis.
"I was chanting part of my father's Pushtoo translation."
"You don't mean to say that you were repeating anything from the Bible to those savage, bloodthirsty, Mohammedan bigots?"
"I commenced with what never provokes even a Moslem," replied the missionary's son; "I gave the Afghans part of the Sermon on the Mount."
"And are you insane enough to imagine that it has done, or could do good to any one here?" asked Denis.
"It has done good to myself," was the quiet reply.
"How—what do you mean?" inquired Denis.
"I repeated to others a lesson which I need to take home to my own heart,—Love your enemies."
"I will never love nor forgive an Afghan," exclaimed Denis, and he finished the sentence with a muttered curse.
"God helping me, I will," thought Walter. He had found that one of the greatest aids to obeying the Saviour's difficult command, is to try todo good to them that hate you. The youth had that day made his first attempt to shed a gleam of Gospel light upon his cruel oppressors. It cast a glorious radiance upon Walter's own soul,—the pillar which rested over his prison was indeed a pillar of light.
A little later in the day Walter resumed his singing. This time the story of Zaccheus was his theme. Denis stood close by to amuse himself in his dreary bondage by watching the various expressions on the upturned faces below.
"Look there, Walter! there's a beauty, a perfect littlehouri!"* exclaimed Dermot Denis suddenly, as he caught sight of a child about eight years of age, who, attracted by the music, had come down by some unseen staircase which led to the upper apartments occupied by the family of the chief. The girl was leaning against one of the pillars, half in the shadow of a recess.
* Houris are the beautiful beings who are supposed to wait on believers in Paradise.
"It is Sultána!" cried Walter, who had just finished his chant. The child caught his eye and bounded forward, her face beaming with pleasure at the sight of her Feringhee preserver.
"Ah! here comes good fortune in the shape of an Afghan fairy!" ejaculated Denis. Determined to make the most of it, the Irishman pressed forward in his eagerness to gain the child's attention, half pushing his companion aside that he himself might occupy the foremost place. "Hungry, big hungry," cried Denis, in his imperfect Pushtoo. He pointed to his own mouth, then pointing to his friend, indicated that Walter also was suffering privation. Denis could think of no other Pushtoo at the moment but "kill sheep;" but it seemed to him to express what he desired to say like a telegraphic message.
Sultána's smile showed that she understood the tall stranger. She only said, however, "I will bring something, but not now; I cannot stay, I am wanted," and she vanished into the dark recess from which she had just emerged.
But it was as if in these few minutes the fairy had scattered a whole shower of blossoms over the path of the sanguine and volatile Denis. The love of romance, which was strong in him, was gratified, and his excessively sanguine spirit built an airy fabric of hope on the smile of a child. Sultána would aid his escape, he knew it; he would win the little one's heart,—it was a pity that she was only a child. Denis had unbounded confidence in his own powers of persuasion if only he were able to speak; but who could plead effectually with a vocabulary so limited as his! For hours Denis did nothing but ask Walter to translate words and sentences into Pushtoo. The Irishman learnt eagerly and with rapidity, his anxiety to speak quickening his apprehension, and strengthening a memory naturally good. Denis was proud of his own progress, and impatient to make use of his new acquisitions. Why did not Sultána return? Was she, the beautiful child, also a faithless, ungrateful Afghan!
About sunset a furious squabble arose between two Afghans outside the fort, who were evidently likely to come to blows. The outer gate being not yet locked, as it invariably was at night, most of the inhabitants of the Eagle's Nest thronged out to see thetamasha. The court-yard was clear, save of a few old women, and children too young even to enjoy the sight of a fray. As if seizing her opportunity, from a different recess from that in which she had at first disappeared, came forth little Sultána, her speed only checked by the necessity of carrying something with care. She climbed the ladder with the agility of a cat, not needing to make use of her hands. Wrapt up in what Denis recognised as a silk handkerchief of his own, was something which the child eagerly placed in the hands of Walter. "It is good, eat it—and quickly," said the girl.
The handkerchief contained a large portion of a delicate kid, cooked to perfection on hot stones placed in a hole, a fashion of Afghan cooking which was quite new to Denis. The captives, it need not be said, had no knives or forks, dishes or plates; but to men who had starved for two days on black bread, no accessories were needed. Sultána stood by, smiling to see how the meal was enjoyed. Denis was too busily engaged in eating even to make use of his newly-acquired sentences in Pushtoo. His appetite was worthy of an Afghan.
"Do you know how I got that for you?" asked Sultána of Walter, who was the first to end his repast.
"You coaxed your father to send it."
"No, my father would send nothing," said the child, "though I begged him until he was angry. I will tell you how I got it," she went on, in a low confidential tone. "Mir Ghazan was baking his kid, but I determined that some one else should eat it. So I ran up to him, and said, 'Oh! Mir Ghazan, I saw just now a fine cheetah outside the fort; I think it's hid in the jungle; if you're quick you may shoot it!' for I knew that he wanted a cheetah's skin; he told me so a few days ago. Up jumped Mir Ghazan," continued the girl, mirth dancing in her blue eyes; "he seized his gun, and off he went, and I ran away with the kid."
"O Sultána! if I had known this, I would not have eaten the kid," said Walter, in a tone of gentle reproach.
"Why, didn't you want food?" said the little Afghan.
"Do you remember, dear Sultána, that when we were in the jungle together I taught you thatGod is love?"
"Yes, and you taught me to pray, 'Allah! teach me to know Thee. Allah! teach me to love Thee.' I've done it too," said the child.
"God is not only loving, but He is holy, most holy, Sultána, and those who know Him and love Him He always makes holy also. God has forbidden us to lie and to steal."
"Do you never lie or steal?" asked the girl, in surprise.
"I try not to disobey the great God's commands, and He helps me, for I ask Him for help," said Walter. "Sultána, without God's aid we can do nothing but sin."
The idea of sin was a new one to the little Afghan. "What is sin?" she said, inquiringly.
"Disobeying the commands of a holy God. Shall I tell you, my child, how sin and sorrow and death first came into this beautiful world? It was by one lie, that of Satan; one taking of forbidden fruit by a woman."
Sultána seated herself at the Englishman's feet to listen, and with earnest attention heard the story of the Fall.
"And now, Sultána, do you remember the song which I was singing, about the Holy Teacher who came to the house of a man who was a great sinner."
"I heard the song," said Sultána.
"The Master forgave the man's sin, and loved him; but did the man then remain a thief and a liar, as it seems likely that he had been before?"
A troubled expression came over the lovely face of the child. When conscience is for the first time awakened, does it not usually awake with a pang? Sultána gave no direct reply; she only said with a sigh, "If your great Pir (holy man) were to come to the Afghans, and bid them not lie and loot, I think that they would kill him."
"The Jewsdidkill our great Master," said Walter; "I will tell you that story another time, Sultána."
In the meantime Denis had finished his very ample repast. "Better take enough for three days," he thought; "for who knows when I may have such another dinner again!" He then took the well-picked bones, and threw them out of the hole which served as a window. Denis had a shrewd idea that Sultána had not come quite lawfully by her prize, though he understood very little of the conversation passing between her and his friend.
The Irishman had no intention of letting Walter monopolise the attention of the pretty little Afghan; he had resolved to win the child's heart. Denis was indeed aware that he did not appear to advantage in his present deplorable guise; his hair matted, tangled, and stained, and his face marred with scratches and bruises. Walter's threadbare coat had split in more than one place, and the remaining part of Denis's dress was so ragged and soiled, that it afforded no temptation even to an Afghan spoiler. Denis would not have chosen to be seen thus in Bond Street, but in a robber's fort in Afghanistan deficiencies would be less noticed.
"The real gentleman shines forth in any costume," thought the Irishman; "if I can trust less to my appearance, I must trust more to my wits." Then, recalling to memory his well-conned speech, Denis thus addressed the Afghan child.
"Come, speak me, Sultána, houri! pearl of garden! rose of sea!" It is not to be wondered at if the orator made a few blunders in airing his newly-acquired Pushtoo.
The child surveyed him with an expression of mingled curiosity and doubt. She listened, but did not move from her place by Walter.
Denis, considering the extreme poverty of his materials, made a marvellous display of eloquence, aiding his halting tongue by expressive signs. "I, prince—great prince" (he pointed to himself), "Sultána, beautiful" (and again came the string of flattering epithets learned by heart). "Sultána, help—prince—get away—prince send elephant—English—silver howdah—big gold—Sultána, houri, much glad."
"Is he a prince?" looking up inquiringly at her first European friend.
"Not shahzáda (prince) but gentleman," replied Walter, giving his comrade the title in Pushtoo which would most truthfully describe his position in life.
"Has he an English elephant with silver howdah?" asked Sultána.
"Not that—but gold to buy one," was the hesitating reply.
"Come, houri, pearl of garden," resumed Denis in his most insinuating tone.
"I will not come, you tell lies!" said the child; and with this brief and startling rebuke she quitted the room.
A woeful sight met Sultána, as with light step she descended the ladder. The two men whose quarrel had given her an opportunity of carrying the stolen food to the captives, after for half-an-hour bandying fierce words and blows, had at last taken to their knives—no uncommon way of settling a dispute in the Eagle's Nest. The result was that both were now carried through the gateway into the fort, groaning and bleeding. The sight of wounds was too common to shock the little Afghan on ordinary occasions; but now in the sufferers she recognised Mir Ghazan and Ali Khan. The latter was a favourite with Sultána, as the youth had, in boyhood, often carried his lovely little cousin in his arms, and made a playmate of the beautiful child.
"Oh, Mir Ghazan, you wolf! why did you stab him?" exclaimed Sultána.
"He stole my kid!" cried Mir Ghazan.
"I did not!" was the angry denial; the war which had been carried on with knives, was prolonged in fierce words, mingled with groans.
"He did not—it was I who stole your kid!" exclaimed Sultána; "I was like Eve,—the harm comes from me, and if they die, I have killed them!" The hot tears which filled and brimmed over the little girl's eyes were tears of repentance. For the first time in her life the Afghan felt conviction of sin, the sin of breaking a commandment of God and incurring His wrath. Not an hour before Sultána had been utterly ignorant of its nature, but what Walter had written on a child's heart now seemed to flash forth in letters of fire. Sultána saw in the wounds, and heard in the groans, the result of sin—her own sin!
This recognition of sin and its nature may seem but the alphabet in spiritual knowledge; but, alas! how many called Christians have never learnt it! A vague acknowledgment that all are sinners, is very different indeed from the heart's confession,I have Sinned! Where repentance has never been known, oh how weak is faith and how cold is love! The sense of sin makes faith look up to a Saviour; the joy of receiving pardon makes love pour forth her rich offering of self-sacrifice at His feet. They love much who truly feel that they have been forgiven much.
And another lesson had also been learnt by the quick pupil, the intelligent Afghan child. With the bright drops flowing down her cheeks, Sultána ran up to the wounded men who had been laid on charpais in the court-yard, ready for the rough surgery of the barber. The girl stripped the silver bracelets from her slender wrists, and silently laid them beside the bleeding forms of Mir Ghazan and Ali Khan. Then slowly, and sadly Sultána returned to the zenana apartments above to receive the chastisement which she expected—not so much for her mischievous exploit, as for giving away her jewels. The poor child had only the comfort of knowing that she had done what she could in the way of reparation, and had done it at once.
Dermot Denis was somewhat mortified and ruffled at the result of his interview with Sultána. She was but a pretty, ignorant savage after all, he said, and was probably not to be trusted. He would rather, he averred, depend for means of escape on his own courage and skill. But how even his powers could effect his purpose was a difficult problem to solve. The outer gate was invariably secured at night, and would form an impassable barrier. The court-yard was never quite empty; or if for a few minutes it appeared to be so, who could tell how many eyes were looking forth from the recesses beyond the pillars or the trellis-covered apertures which probably lighted the zenana? Thus on the court-yard side there was clearly scarcely the faintest chance of escape. On the opposite side, where the aperture served as a window, the precipice seemed to preclude all hope; unless, indeed, a rope could be procured long enough, and strong enough to support a man of some weight as far as a clump of brushwood, from which, if active, he might possibly clamber down to more level ground. How could Denis contrive to procure such a rope? He had in the morning made an attempt to sound Ali Khan on the subject, having learnt from Walter the Pushtoo word for a rope, but the young Afghan either could not or would not understand him. Ali Khan had probably too much regard for his own neck to hazard it by aiding the prisoner's plans; and even had such not been the case, his present wounded condition precluded his giving the slightest assistance.
Denis lay awake till past midnight plotting and planning, resolved to escape in time to stop the sending of the immense sum of money required by Assad Khan for his ransom. The young Irishman fell at length into a sleep prolonged for hours after sunrise, and so profound that it was not broken by sounds which must have startled from slumber almost anyone but himself. Denis was so accustomed to rude noises from the court-yard, that the wildest uproar would scarcely have roused him. What the sounds were will be told in the following chapter.
At daybreak there was an arrival in the Eagle's Nest. The great gate was opened earlier than usual to admit a travellingMoulvie.* Walter, who was as usual an early riser, witnessed the entrance of the holy man, who was received with respect. The Englishman soon saw the effect of the presence of a religious teacher in the place, one who had the prestige of a Hajji.** The Afghans in the fort had been exceedingly lax in the performance of the outward forms of their religion; their only worship had appeared to be that of gold. There had been no apparent reading of the Koran; no Muezzin had sounded the call to prayer. But now, as Walter looked down on the court-yard, he saw prayer-carpets spread, and the Moulvie, with his face turned towards Mecca, going through the formal ceremonials which Mohammedanism prescribes. He was now on his knees, anon with his forehead touching the ground, then rising and bowing the orthodox number of times, whilst some Afghans behind him imitated the Moulvie's movements, and repeated after him that which was rather an enumeration of divine attributes than what we should recognise as anything like prayer. The whole ceremony was almost like a drill exercise, and had as little of true devotion in it as the movements of soldiers on parade. And yet these sons of Islam looked upon it as a means of compounding for their sins; the unscrupulous robber, the red-handed murderer, was yet a "true believer," and looked upon paradise as the reward of his cold and heartless observance of forms.
* Religious instructor.
** One who has performed a pilgrimage to Mecca.
The devotions, such as they were, being ended, and the carpets removed, the Moulvie retired into one of the recesses, out of view of Walter, probably to partake of Afghan hospitality. Almost in front of the prison of the Europeans were the charpais on which were stretched the two Afghans wounded on the preceding evening, Mir Ghazan and Ali Khan. The former was asleep; the latter raised his languid eyes towards the Englishman, for whom he had formed a liking, and answered with courtesy Walter's inquiries as to how he had passed the night. It appeared evident that the youth's wound, though painful, was of no dangerous nature. Ali Khan had specially enjoyed the singing of Walter, and now he feebly asked the captive to sing again. Walter complied at once, choosing a parable as his theme.
The unusual sound brought the Moulvie out of his dark retreat. He was a man of repulsive appearance, with dark stern face, on whose every lineament seemed to be written bigotry and pride.
"Who is this dog of a Kafir," he cried, "who dares to lift up his voice in the hearing of true believers! Who knows with what venom he is poisoning the ears of the faithful! Let him become a follower of the true Prophet, or die the death of a dog! He should be given but the choice between Islam and the edge of the sword."
His loud angry call drew around the Moulvie a band of Afghans, who looked up towards Walter with threatening eyes, and hands grasping the hilts of their daggers.
"I know the blasphemies of these Kafirs," continued the Moulvie; "I know what is written in that book which they dare to call the Word of God."
"And which Mohammed Sahib himself acknowledged to be such," said Walter. "I, too, have read the Koran."
"Dost dare to answer me, O son of a dog! devourer of the unclean beast!" exclaimed the Moulvie, and he began to pour out a volley of imprecations which could but have the object of stirring up the ignorant fanatics around him to some deed of violence.
Perhaps there is no being upon earth to whose heart the life blood would not "thrill with sudden start" when facing almost immediate death by the hands of his fellow-creatures. Walter saw his enemy's object, and felt that his own life hung on a thread. There was an instinct to retreat back as far as he could, though but into a room whose door he could not close, as it opened from without; but a thought of Denis flashed across the prisoner's mind. Should he draw down the lightning on his friend; need there be two murders instead of one? No; instead of retreating, Walter advanced a step, so that his foot was on the first round of the ladder; he then closed the door, and set his back firmly against it, earnestly praying that the sounds which must follow might not bring Denis forth to witness and to share the terrible fate before his companion. The Englishman's face was very pale, but he blenched not.
The Moulvie also advanced a step. He raised his clenched fist, and exclaimed: "I will expose thy detestable blasphemies, and convict thee out of thine own mouth. Whom dost thou say that Isa (Jesus) the Son of Mary was?"
"The Saviour—my Saviour!" replied Walter.
"That is no answer!" cried the Moulvie, with fierce eagerness to draw his victim to utter the word which of all others most rouses the bigotry of the Moslem. "Tell me but this,—had He a Father?"
"Yes."
"And who was that Father?—whose Son was your Prophet Isa?"
"He that confesses Me before men, him will I also confess before the angels of heaven!" thought Walter, feeling as if a train of gunpowder were beneath him, and that he was himself called to apply the match.
"Whose Son was He?" repeated the Moulvie.
"The Son of God," replied Walter, with distinct voice, though a quivering lip.
"Down with him! kill him! slay the blasphemer!" cried the Moulvie; "the path to paradise is over the corpses of Kafirs!"
There was a rush up the ladder staircase, daggers flashed in the sunlight. The assailants, on so narrow a way, cumbered each other's movements; Walter felt himself struck, but the attempt of the man behind the foremost ruffian to get in front by pushing past him partly diverted the blow, and instead of receiving a mortal wound, Walter, in the scuffle, was thrown with violence off the ladder into the court-yard below!
It was like falling amongst a herd of yelling wolves, who would soon have finished their terrible work, had not at the moment the loud angry voice of the Afghan chief arrested his followers. With naked weapon in his hand, and wrath flashing from his eyes, Assad Khan strode into the midst of the throng.
"Back, madmen!" he exclaimed. "Would you dare to slay the prisoner whom I please to protect, and rob me of a ransom that will make me the wealthiest chief in the land of the Afghans!"
The would-be murderers shrank back, ashamed not of their guilt, but their folly.
"We want no fire-brands here!" continued the haughty chief, turning towards the discomfited Moulvie. "Go on your journey, and at once. We can find our way to paradise well enough without the aid of such teaching as yours."
Walter lay on the ground in violent pain, not so much from his wounded shoulder as from his ankle, which had been severely sprained by the fall. While the chief was angrily repeating his orders for the summary dismissal of the Moulvie, who was violently expostulating, and threatening Assad Khan with the displeasure of all thePirswhose tombs the Hajji had visited, two little hands were placed on Walter's arm, and a trembling voice exclaimed:
"Oh, have they killed my Feringhee friend!"
"No, dear child, it is merely that my ankle is sprained. The shoulder is nothing—a mere flesh-cut," said Walter; he bit his lip to keep down the expression of pain.
"It was I who brought my father," whispered Sultána. "I had come down with milk for poor Ali Khan, and I saw that bad Moulvie in such a fury, and I guessed what was going to happen, so I ran up the stair to bring help."