"You saved my life, Sultána."
The child's face brightened with keen delight. "Do you think that the great Allah sent me to save you," she asked, "as He sent you to save me from the cheetah that was carrying me off!"
"I have not a doubt that He sent you."
"I did not hear Him," said Sultána; "but as I ran I asked Him to make me run fast, and it was as if He gave me wings, and I flew,—I flew!" The child spoke with eager excitement; then softening her tone she added, "I won't forget to thank Him this time."
"Heaven's blessing on you, darling!" exclaimed Walter, his whole soul going with his words.
"Why was the Moulvie so savage?" asked Sultána; "what did he want you to do?"
"To deny my Saviour, the Lord Jesus! It was better to die than do that."
"Do you love Him so much!" said the child.
"Better than life," was the reply.
"Will you tell me all about Him?" whispered the little Afghan; "perhaps you may teach me to love Him too."
It may have been simple caprice, or even the spirit of contradiction, or possibly a more generous emotion roused by the sight of wrong done to one who had rescued his child, that made Assad Khan now treat his wounded captive with something like kindness. Whatever was the cause of the chief's conduct, Walter benefited by the change. He was raised from the ground and placed on a charpai. The old barber, who in the fort acted the part of a surgeon, which he did with skill acquired by much practice, dressed the wound in the shoulder, bound up the ankle, and applied a lotion of herbs to reduce the swelling which had already begun. A brass vessel filled with milk, and an abundance of delicious fruit, were brought for the suffering youth; and with a consideration which surprised him, some of the contents of his own plundered carpet-bag, which afforded Walter the relief of a change of clothes. Assad Khan asked his captive whether he preferred remaining below, or being carried up to the room which he had occupied with the other Feringhee. Walter unhesitatingly chose to return to Denis. By the chief's order he was carried up on the charpai, and over him Assad Khan threw a large and handsome wrap, something between a rug and a blanket, acquired—we need not inquire how.
Denis, who had watched the latter part of the proceedings from the top of the stair, was really distressed at the sight of his injured friend. Walter was gratified at beholding his companion's unfeigned sorrow, for he saw unbidden tears rising to the Irishman's eyes. But when the Afghans who had carried up the wounded captive had quitted the room, and the prisoners were left to themselves, the deepest source of Denis's trouble became apparent.
"The most unlucky thing that could have happened!" he cried. "You are lamed for ever so long. I know what a sprain is, for I had one when my horse came down in leaping a ditch. It's worse than breaking a bone. You won't be able for weeks to do more than hop round the room?"
"Not a very wide circle to hop round," observed Walter with a smile.
"No joking matter!" cried Denis impatiently. "How can you make your escape with me if you are utterly lame?"
"Lame or not, I see no way of either of us making our escape," observed Walter.
"But I do—at least I will. Do you think that I am going to wait here like Patience on a monument grinning at Afghans, till a ransom is paid that would make me a beggar?"
Walter was too weary to reply. He felt utterly exhausted by the effects of his fall. The youth fell into a deep sleep which lasted for hours, and awoke, though still in pain, greatly revived and refreshed.
During the sleep of his comrade, how busy had been the thoughts of Dermot Denis, what a struggle had been going on in his mind! Denis was not much given to thinking, except in the way of building castles in the air, or forming ingenious schemes for accomplishing some plan which he had taken into his head. Almost new to him was the exercise of considering whether what he wished to do were right or wrong; but his judgment was forced on that exercise now. Denis had two courses open before him, and the one on which his heart was set would involve an action which his better nature knew to be base—desertion of the faithful and generous friend whom he himself, by his folly and self-will, had drawn into danger.
"Walter is evidently a favourite here; no one would injure him," said Denis to himself, as he strode up and down the narrow space of his prison. "To remain beside him would do him no good. Were I once in India I could take effectual means for his rescue. It is better for him that I should fly."
Thus, by arguing with himself, Denis tried to drown the inward voice of honour—it could scarcely be called conscience—that told him that it would be cruel and base to leave Walter to the fury of savages baulked of their golden prize, and that it was selfishness that prompted the wish to do so. Denis's most effectual argument was the strength of his own desire. What world-wide fame he would acquire by accomplishing so daring a feat as escaping from a den of robbers! What a book of thrilling adventures he would write, which would not only be eagerly read in Britain, Ireland, and India, but would be translated into foreign tongues. The title of "Afghanistan Denis," the traveller who made the wonderful escape from the Eagle's Nest, would be more gratifying to his pride than could be the ribbon of the Bath. Thus reflected Denis, and he had succeeded in almost persuading himself that black was white, before Walter awoke from his sleep.
"How are you, old boy?" inquired Denis.
"Better, very much better. I cannot be too thankful to Him who has brought good out of evil. Denis, I feel such a hope——" Walter paused, for he was conscious that he was speaking to one who had no sympathy with any such hope.
"What is it?" inquired the Irishman; "I thought that you always left the hoping to me."
"I hope that I have been led here to do some good to these wild Afghans, and specially to that most interesting child Sultána."
"Do you mean that you have been self-appointed to act as a kind of honorary missionary in the Eagle's Nest—a shepherd—or rather a wolf-herd to a gang of Afghan robbers?"
"God can make use of the weakest instruments," said Walter, rather speaking to himself than to Denis. "It was certainly a mysterious Providence that led me here." Walter was thinking of the fiery cloudy pillar which he had prayerfully sought to follow.
"If any one can do good here, you will," said Denis; "the ruffians seem to be amazingly fond of your singing; you have certainly a capital voice. Do you think you could give the Afghans a little of your chanting now?"
Walter was surprised at such a proposal coming from Denis. He himself felt little equal to any bodily effort; but his voice was the one talent left to Walter in his prison, and he desired to use it to the uttermost for his Master. The young man let Denis draw his charpai to a position in front of the open door, so that Walter, by raising himself to a sitting posture, commanded a view of the court-yard, and looked directly down on the two wounded men. Ali Khan's expression of pleasure at seeing him, rewarded Walter for the little effort which he had made.
"Leave your blanket with me," said Dermot Denis. "The afternoon is so hot, you cannot possibly want it." Scarcely waiting for a word of consent, Denis carried off the wrap to a corner of the room which was quite out of view of the court-yard.
Walter's conduct on the late trying occasion had made a favourable impression on some of the Afghans. He was regarded as a gallant youth, who had scorned to deny his faith, even with a dagger at his throat. Whether that faith were true or false was a matter of utter indifference to many of the dwellers in the fort; they knew that Assad Khan had called the Moulvie—whatever in Pushtoo is equivalent to a humbug—and had turned him out of the place; what were they that they should dispute the judgment of their chief? Thus Walter began his singing under more favourable auspices than before, and had a larger circle of listeners. The prisoner not only chanted the account of the Prodigal Son, but was able to give a simple practical exposition of that story which perhaps, of all the Lord's parables, goes most directly to the listener's heart. Pain and weariness were forgotten; Walter was full of animation; he felt that he was giving the message of salvation to those who now heard for the first time that there is a Father in Heaven, ready to welcome His prodigals home.
Young Gurney sang and spoke for more than an hour; indeed, as long as his strength would hold out. An Afghan then came up the stair with a meal, which was a better one than Assad Khan had ever before sent to his captives.
"Take it from his hands—don't let the fellow come in!" cried Denis from his corner. "Tell him to close the door; we've had enough of the Afghans for this day at least."
Walter translated the request into Pushtoo; the food was placed on the charpai, and the door closed, but not locked. Walter turned to see why Denis delayed coming to share the dinner, and beheld with surprise the occupation in which his comrade was engaged.
Denis had that morning discovered a penknife in the pocket of Walter's coat, which he wore. It was to the Irishman a prize of priceless value. That penknife, with patient toil, he had been plying during the whole of the time that Walter had been engaged in missionary work.
"What are you doing?" exclaimed the astonished Walter; "cutting my—or rather the chief's blanket into strips!"
"Hist! I am preparing a rope."
"You are not dreaming of attempting the descent!"
"Not dreaming, but resolving and preparing," replied Denis, too much engaged—perhaps too much ashamed—to lift up his eyes.
Walter was deeply wounded, far more than he cared to show. He had already had reason to know that the former hero of his fancy was a far less noble being than he had believed him to be; he saw that Denis was thoughtless and selfish; but Walter would have indignantly repudiated the idea of his fellow-captive being able thus to desert a helpless, suffering friend, had he heard it from any lips but the Irishman's own. "Put not your trust in princes, or in any child of men," thought Walter. "I would not, for all the gold of the Indies, have left him to bear the consequences of any flight of mine from this place."
"Don't wait dinner for me!" cried Denis; "I can find my way to my mouth by starlight, but cannot spare one second of daylight for my work, for one strip carelessly cut might cost me a broken neck."
"Will your rope be long enough?" asked Walter curtly.
"Thirty-six strips, each six feet long; that will reach some way down, even allowing for the knots," replied Denis.
"Can you trust your knots?"
"Most perfectly; I am famous for knots, I make them tighter than even those of wedlock."
A long pause of silence followed. It was broken by the impatient Denis.
"I say, Walter, don't dawdle so over your food; eat fast, and have done with it. I could get on twice as rapidly if you held the cloth whilst I cut it. The sun has almost set."
Walter did not refuse his help. Somewhat gloomily and silently he assisted the Irishman at his work. Denis laboured energetically; the strips were all divided at last, just as it became too dark to direct the knife.
Then came the tying of the knots. Denis strained them with all his might to be sure that they would not slip. Such work could be done in semi-darkness. It was by feeling, not by sight, that the rope was fastened to the iron hook in the wall, and first the end, then the remaining length let down through the window. During the last hour scarcely a word had been spoken.
"Denis, if you make your way down in safety, how will you find any path to the road?"
"Trust an Irishman for finding his way; it's an instinct," was the reply.
"Will your strength suffice for the journey on foot? You are likely to be pursued."
"Not till morning, at least," said Denis; "and to-morrow I shall be safe in India. I have strength enough for anything short of carrying off this fort on my shoulders. I have, ere now, walked fifty miles for a wager, and on the second day of our journey, thanks to that limping mule, we did not go far. But I'll prepare myself for my long trudge by a hurried meal ere I start."
Denis ate with feverish haste the food which he could not see. His dinner was despatched in three minutes. What remained he thrust into his pocket. "Now, I'm ready to be off!" he exclaimed; "hurrah for freedom and home!"
"Dermot," said Walter, earnestly, "we are about to part, probably never again to meet in this world. You are bound on a most dangerous journey, and I——" he cared not to finish the sentence. "Let us once more kneel down together, and commend ourselves, soul and body, to the care of a merciful God."
"Oh, I've no time for prayer!" cried Denis, impatiently; "you pray enough for us both. Now for a start! The first step is what puzzles me most—how to get through yon hole, seeing that my feet must go first, for I must not descend head downwards. But where there's a will there's a way!"
To facilitate his climb to the window, Denis dragged the charpai beneath it; but even when raised upon this, he could not bring his feet to the required elevation, though clinging to the rope to help him. The unexpected mechanical difficulty irritated the impetuous young man.
"Walter, I must climb on your shoulder."
"Perhaps you will remember that I am wounded," said Walter, coldly.
"Of course I don't mean your wounded shoulder; just stand up. Oh, I forget you are lame—how very provoking! Still you can give me some help."
At the cost of much suffering, the help was given; without it, notwithstanding his agility, and the desperate efforts which he made, Denis could not have accomplished his purpose. With one foot planted on the unwounded shoulder, maintaining his balance by means of the rope, Denis contrived to protrude the other foot through the hole. To make the first follow it was a feat painfully hard to accomplish, and every unsuccessful attempt caused actual agony to Walter. At length the long limbs of Denis were in outer air. But another annoyance was to be encountered. The width of the aperture hardly admitted the passage of shoulders so broad as those of the young Irishman. Denis pushed, struggled, gasped and groaned, sorely grazing his skin against the rough sides of the hole. Most terrible indeed would be his fate if he remained fixed as in a vice, his head and shoulders within the prison, his feet dangling helplessly in the air. For some minutes—terrible minutes—Denis was utterly unable to get in or out. The drops burst forth on his brow, as much from the dread that he would not be able to force his way through, as from the frantic efforts which he made to do so. At last—at last through the hole which had been so completely blocked up by the form of Denis as to leave the room in utter darkness, Walter could see the stars once more. There was a head still visible, then hands clinging to the knotted line; then they too disappeared—Dermot Denis was free!
Walter listened with breathless attention for any sound from below. He heard but the screech of the owl pursuing his nightly flight; even that familiar sound made him start. Then surely there was something like a crash on the brushwood low down. Had Denis reached the bottom of the descent? Walter had no means of judging by sight, but he got hold of the rope not far from the hook, and by pulling it ascertained that it was hanging loose, not strained tight by the weight of a man. Dermot must either have climbed down or have fallen,—which?
"Better unloose the knot now, and throw down the rope after him, that no clue remain as to how he made his escape," thought Walter.
He could not unloose the knot, but groped in the dark for the penknife. Walter's sprained ankle made every movement painful. The penknife was found at last, left open on the floor by Denis. Walter, standing on the charpai, cut the knot which he could not untie, and the end of the rope which had been fastened to it was drawn through the hole by the weight of the rest.
Walter could now do no more but prepare his soul by prayer, and his body by rest, for whatever the morrow might bring. He was engaged in fervent devotion, when a rude tramping on the stair and the sound of voices broke the stillness of midnight. The door was roughly thrown open. At the hour when he was least expected, Assad Khan, attended by men bearing torches, and one small form gliding noiselessly behind, entered the prisoners' room.
It is necessary to explain the cause of Assad Khan's most unexpected appearance.
The chief was holding late revels that night, to celebrate some relative's betrothal, when a loud and continued call at the gate announced that some one wanted admittance. The great iron key hung at the girdle of Assad Khan, for he never at night trusted it into any hands but his own. Such precaution was deemed necessary in that land of treachery and sudden surprises. Followed by those who had been sharing his banquet, Assad Khan stalked to the massive gate. The call for admittance had excited the curiosity of the females of his family, who, in their upper apartments, were having a feast of their own. Sultána, to whom childhood gave freedom of action, came down to behold and report.
The gate was not unclosed till it was ascertained that he who claimed admittance was Attili Ullah, a trusted servant of the chief, who had been chosen as his messenger to convey the letter of Dermot Denis to the official in India.
On being admitted, the Afghan fell at the feet of Assad Khan, and told his story. He spun it out to some length, with a great many appeals to the Holy Being whose name is so lightly taken by Moslems. But the story itself may be given in very few words. In fording a river Attili's foot had slipped, he had been well-nigh drowned, and the precious letter which was to have brought such heaps of rupees had been lost!
Assad Khan was angry, and the poor messenger narrowly escaped a flogging as well as drowning. Assad Khan thought, however, that the delay of a few days was all the harm that had been done. If the yellow-haired one, as he called the Irishman, had written one letter, he was at hand to write another, and a second messenger should start with it at once. It was this that brought to the prison at midnight the unwelcome visitors who now thronged it.
"Where is he? Where is the yellow-haired?" exclaimed Assad Khan, gazing around in surprise at finding only Walter within.
"Where is he?" echoed the wondering attendants.
Walter had resolved to answer no questions. Every minute's delay was, he felt, important, as giving to Dermot Denis a better chance of escape.
"Where is the Kafir dog?" exclaimed the furious chief, when no doubt remained that the prisoner had vanished indeed.
Not a word from the lips of Walter.
"Who saw him last?" roared out the chief; "who brought the food which I sent more early than usual?"
"I took it," answered an Afghan.
"Was the yellow-haired here? Did you see him?"
"I did not see him, for he," pointing to Walter, "took the food from my hand, and I did not enter the room."
Several voices spoke at once; they bore witness that the yellow-haired had been in the room when Walter was carried in on the charpai; but nothing had been seen of him since.
"Then it may have been many hours since he passed through the court-yard; and he could not pass without being seen!" exclaimed the indignant chief. "Ali Khan and Mir Ghazan at least must have seen him. If there has been treachery,—if the Feringhee has bribed with his gold,—the vengeance of Assad shall fall on the traitors." Then suddenly turning again towards Walter, he cried, "You must know how and when he fled. Dog, speak! or I'll force out the secret by torture!"
Walter pressed his white lips closely together; not a sound came forth.
"Bind him and bastinado him, till he speak or die!"
The state of Walter's ankle, so inflamed that even a touch gave pain, made the command most barbarous; every blow on that foot would be torture indeed. The unhappy youth could but inwardly pray that strength might be given to bear what he felt that unaided human nature could not endure. But no compassion for the sufferer was heard in any Afghan heart there—but one. Sultána did not weep, nor cling to her father's knees; child as she was, she knew that to do so would be of no avail whatever—she might as well try by tears to melt a stone; like a young fawn she bounded forward—one little bare foot just touching the charpai gave impetus to her spring. Sultána was in the window aperture in a moment, and cried out in a tone of defiance—"If you touch him, I'll throw myself over the cliff."
"Sultána, come down!" cried her father; "I will wring the secret out of the Kafir!"
"But ifIcan tell it?"—and what a bright face, bending down from the aperture, was seen by the torchlight! "what if the little Eagle knows how the yellow-haired fled!"
"Thou! speak, child!" cried the chief, in surprise.
"You will not hurt my friend if I tell all?"
"I have no wish to hurt him," was the reply, "if I can but get back again into my grasp the wealthy Feringhee. This youth is poor as a wandering fakir."
"The yellow-haired fled this way—by this opening," cried Sultána; "he must have had an eagle's wings, indeed, if he got to the bottom unharmed."
"How knowest thou that he escaped by the window?"
"He left a bit of his coat behind on this stone!" cried the intelligent child, triumphantly exhibiting a fragment of the garment which Denis had torn in his struggle to get through the hole, and which her hand had accidentally touched.
"After him, and seize him!" cried the chief.
There needed no second command. Like hounds at the sound of the wild halloo, the Afghans rushed from the room, knocking one another over in their eagerness to descend the staircase-ladder. The chief followed almost as quickly, remembering what his men had forgotten, that he had the key at his girdle, by means of which alone they could pass through the gate to commence their midnight search, after descending the hill on whose summit the hill was built.
Sultána sprang down from the window. Walter heard her voice, as clasping her little hands she exclaimed, "Allah! Sultána thanks Thee! Thou hast sent her to save her Feringhee again!"
We must return to Dermot Denis, clinging to his rope, and descending on his perilous way.
Dangerous it was, that he knew; but his bold and buoyant spirit was full of hope, as soon as by violent effort he had succeeded in squeezing his body through the window. He clambered down as rapidly as he could, for the doubt soon forced itself on his mind whether his arms, whose muscles were unaccustomed to that peculiar kind of effort, could support the weight of his body for any great length of time. The knots were in one way a help, affording small projections for the feet; but they made it impossible for the rope to slip rapidly through his hands, as cordage through those of a sailor. Denis intuitively counted them as he passed them; each knot was a step towards freedom, but their number was appalling. Denis had, he knew, made two hundred and fifteen knots; his arms ached before he had passed twenty. He could dimly distinguish the outline of the top of the fort cutting the blue sky above him; if he attempted to glance downwards, there was nothing but darkness beneath—he seemed to be descending into unfathomable space! Down, down, down! Eighty knots were passed; the tension of the muscles now was agony, but Denis did not dare to let go. He could hardly even guess how far he was from the bottom; he was alarmed to see how small a space he seemed to have placed between himself and the top. The climber feared that he could not have gone half the distance, and he was as one on the rack! Desperately the bold Irishman held on his way; ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, then he felt the knot which he now grasped not like the rest; it was slipping—giving way—oh horror! the next moment the unfortunate Denis was dashed to the bottom! With characteristic carelessness he had not fully tested one knot,—only one,—and that carelessness cost him his life!
Low down amongst the brushwood, where no human foot ever had trodden, lay the mangled, broken corpse of the unfortunate Denis. No time to pray, he had said ere he started; he had thrown away his last opportunity; oh, had he but known that it was his last!
Denis had never deliberately rejected religion; he had, as has been said, never disgraced himself by indulging in any gross vice. Selfishness and self-will were his bane, and he had never looked upon them as sins; he had never thought that they imperilled his soul. Denis had never paused to consider, as he formed his life-rope of pleasures and plans, that he was in truth hanging over an abyss, into which a mere accident might precipitate him for ever!
O reader! pause for a few moments and consider your own state in the sight of God. My little book may not be in the hands of the openly wicked and profane, but is it now in the hands of the self-willed and selfish? Honestly ask a question of your conscience—"Is my eye watching the fiery cloudy pillar? is the will of my God, and not my own,habituallydirecting my movements? Do I do nothing without seeking direction from on high, and if that direction lead to what seems a desert, am I ready to follow it without hesitation?" This is taking up the cross, this is following fully the Lord whopleased not Himself.
What would have been the fate of an Israelite who, when the heavenly pillar moved on, should have wilfully lingered in some tempting oasis, under the shade of the date trees? He would have lost themanna, he would have lost thewaterwhich, gushing from the smitten rock, supplied the wants of the host. He might for a-while have drunk from an earthly well, and enjoyed the shade and the fruit, but they would not have really satisfied, and must have failed him at last.
Do not turn lightly away from my warning, do not throw away the book, or quickly turn over its pages to find something more pleasant; I would plead with you heart to heart, my brother or sister, in this still hour in which I am writing in the dim twilight before sunrise. Look into your own heart and see what occupies the central place within it. Is it theSaviour, orself. In your common habits, your round of daily occupations, is your thought, "This pleases me," or "Would it please my holy Lord?" However innocent may be your amusements, however useful your occupations, however attractive you may be to those around you, if you form your own course according to your own will, you are trusting your safety to a rope which must break, your immortal soul is in peril. Down on your knees, ask for the eye of Faith to see the guiding Pillar; ask for the foot of obedience to follow wherever it lead; pray for the spirit of love to Christ to triumph over self-love; and doubt not that the light before you will shine forth more and more unto the fulness of joy.
We will now pass over seven long years, only lightly glancing at events which immediately followed that recorded in the preceding chapter.
The lifeless body of the unhappy Denis was found by the Afghans before morning. Great was the disappointment of Assad Khan and his followers to find their prisoner dead. Not only were their hopes of a large ransom lost, but they were sorely afraid that the heavy hand of the English Government would come down upon them and crush them, in revenge for the supposed murder of their captive.
"The yellow-haired was a great Amir, a man of mighty wealth, as a prince amongst the Feringhees!" exclaimed Assad Khan. "If it be known that he perished here, there will be a blood-feud between us and the lords of India. They will send an army over the border, and destroy the Eagle's Nest, slay every man that they find, and hang me up with shame and disgrace! He who offends the Feringhees rouses up a tiger who tears and devours. It must never be known that those two Kafirs crossed my threshold."
Walter was in the eyes of the Afghans poor and of little account. It was not supposed that any great search would be made, or large ransom offered for him. He must be kept a close prisoner, and the fact of his having entered the fort remain a profound secret; for, were it known that the one Feringhee was there, the fate of the other would be traced to Assad Khan, and fearful vengeance overtake the chief and all his tribe.
The disappearance of Dermot Denis, though not noticed for a few days, did indeed excite much attention in India, though newspapers at first only told of the adventurous traveller who had, unknown to Government, crossed the border, and for whose safety apprehensions were entertained. After a-while apprehensions increased—not by tales spread by the muleteers, for those unfortunate men had not been suffered to reach India alive, but by the absence of all reliable intelligence of the Irishman and his companion.
Then Government took up the matter. A large reward was offered, and investigations commenced. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF TWO ENGLISHMEN appeared in capitals in every paper, and in mess-room, at dinner-table, in ball-room, the probable fate of the bold adventurers formed a common topic of conversation. But reward offered, and search made were alike unavailing; and other subjects of newer interest took the place of that which at first had been the topic on every tongue.
Denis's relations in Ireland were at first in great trouble about him. His sisters shed floods of tears, his brothers talked of going out themselves to India to prosecute the strictest search. But time wore away the edge of their sorrow. Again the girls danced at the county balls, and enjoyed their picnics and lawn-tennis. The elder of the brothers, in due time, succeeded to the family property; there were hunting and shooting in the fields, revelry and mirth in the mansion whose former master had not even a grave! Poor Dermot was almost forgotten; even his name was seldom mentioned—unless some stranger looking up at the full-length portrait, by an eminent artist, of a gentleman in hunting costume, should chance to inquire, "Who is that splendid-looking young man?" "Oh! poor Dermot, the best fellow in the world—lost in Afghanistan," would be the reply, carelessly given, and immediately, perhaps, followed by a request to pass round the bottle. It is only for a while that the fall of even the largest stone into a lake leaves eddies to tell where it fell. The world's darling passes away, and the thoughtless world laughs on.
Seven years had passed since Denis on his steed, and Walter trudging as his squire on foot, had traversed the mountain road, when a British force, invading Afghanistan, encamped close by the thicket where Sultána had encountered the leopard. Hundreds of camels were crouching on the ground, relieved for a-while from their burdens; hundreds of mules were tethered by the tents. The blare of the bugle, the word of command, the confused noises of a camp resounded in the lately silent pass, and the sunbeams glinted back from bayonet and sword.
"To hero bound for battle strife,Or bard of martial lay,'Twere worth ten years of peaceful lifeOne glance at their array."
A commissariat-officer, burdened with the care of providing for the host, was standing by one of the tents, pencil and note-book in hand, engaged in making some calculation regarding fodder and forage, when he was approached by a stranger of very striking and prepossessing appearance. The Afghan costume set off to advantage a tall and graceful figure, but the countenance and manner were unmistakeably those of an English gentleman. The officer looked up in surprise as he was courteously saluted by the stranger, whose face expressed the emotion naturally felt by one who, after an absence of many years, finds himself again in the midst of his countrymen.
"Whom have I the pleasure of seeing in Afghan disguise?" asked the British officer.
"You are hardly likely, sir, to know a name which its owner has half-forgotten. Seven years ago I was called Walter Gurney."
"'Ha! the companion of Dermot Denis the traveller!' exclaimed the officer. 'What a search was made for you both!'""'Ha! the companion of Dermot Denis the traveller!' exclaimedthe officer. 'What a search was made for you both!'"
"Ha! the companion of Dermot Denis the traveller!" exclaimed the officer, as he cordially grasped his countryman's hand. "What a search was made for you both! What has become of Mr. Denis?"
"My unhappy friend died long ago," replied Walter gravely. "He was killed by a fall down a precipice, when trying to make his escape."
"Poor fellow! poor fellow!" said the officer. "This meeting is most interesting. I must introduce you to our Colonel; I will take you at once to his tent."
"Pardon me, sir, but I would rather be introduced to your Chaplain, if there be one with the forces."
"Here he comes," said the officer, as a missionary acting as chaplain approached the spot, attracted by the sight of a European in Afghan costume. "Mr. Coldstream, let me introduce you to Mr. Gurney, a gentleman who was supposed to have been murdered many years ago by the savage Pathans."
The chaplain warmly shook hands with Walter, and congratulated him on his marvellous escape. "Where have you been? how have you been permitted to join us? how have you been treated?" were questions eagerly asked.
"I shall have time to reply as we walk together," said Walter Gurney, "if you, sir, will grant a great favour which I have specially come to ask. Will you spare us two or three hours of your time, and trust yourself to my guidance up a somewhat difficult mountain path? I will be answerable for your safety."
"For what reason do you wish me to go?" asked the Chaplain in some surprise.
Walter's sunburnt face flushed with pleasure as he replied, "A little flock, seven individuals, are anxiously expecting your coming to admit them, by baptism, into the fold of the Christian Church."
The Chaplain's exclamation of surprise was echoed by several Englishmen whom curiosity had drawn around.
"You don't mean Afghans!" cried the commissariat-officer.
"I do mean Afghans," replied Walter, smiling. "There are four women and three men in a fort on yonder height, quite ready to become members of a Christian community."
"I should expect bears and wolves to become Christians before Pathans," laughed a young ensign, who was not a Christian himself.
"Time is precious," said Walter, turning to the Chaplain and gently pressing his point; "I would not have you descend a difficult road in darkness. We can offer you refreshment above. I should be very grateful, Mr. Coldstream, if you could come with me at once."
"We'll come in a party!" cried the merry ensign; "one does not come across such an adventure as this every day."
"Excuse me, sir," said Walter, courteously but firmly; "a British uniform would create suspicion and alarm. Not many of our mountaineers have embraced the Christian faith, and most of them barely tolerate its profession. I promised that I would bring a clergyman, if I could find one—but bring him alone."
"This is really a foolhardy proceeding, Mr. Coldstream," expostulated an elder officer; "you are not likely to be suffered to come back alive."
"I assure you, sir, that there is no danger, or none that would weigh a grain in the balance with a labourer for Christ," said Walter Gurney. "Two of those who are candidates for baptism in the fort are the chief and his wife."
"A miracle! a miracle!" exclaimed the ensign.
"I think that I can be answerable for Mr. Coldstream's returning within three hours," persisted Walter.
"And I hope that you will return with him," cried one of the officers present.
"Yes, I am anxious to avail myself of this opportunity of returning to India," replied Walter. "Not that I have any intention of deserting my Afghan friends; but I wish to prepare myself by study for ordination, that I may be qualified to act as their pastor."
"Oh, you'll think better than that!" cried the ensign, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel.
"Once out of the trap, you'll hardly walk back into it with your eyes open," said the commissariat-officer with a smile, as Walter, accompanied by the Chaplain, started for the fort.
Walter, with the eagerness of one who has succeeded in an object on which his heart has been set, was impatient to reach the Eagle's Nest; but he had to slacken his pace to suit a companion not accustomed, like himself, to ascend mountains with almost the agility of the chamois. The way was often too narrow to admit of the two men walking abreast; but, in other parts, its comparative breadth permitted conversation between them. Mr. Coldstream heard, with great interest, particulars of the fate of poor Dermot Denis.
"I never saw a man with a finerphysique," he observed; and then, glancing at the noble form and fine face of his guide, he mentally added "but one."
For the slender, delicate-looking youth had developed into a powerful man, with mustachio on lip, and beard on chin,—one so altered and improved in appearance that those who had known him seven years before would scarcely have recognised him. The turban which Walter wore surmounted features regular and aristocratic, to which the singularly animated and intelligent hazel eyes gave character and expression.
"I am surprised that during all the years that you have passed in the mountains, you have never communicated the fact of your existence to friends in India," remarked the Chaplain.
"I could not, though most anxious to do so," replied Walter. "I was a kind of prisoner on parole. Had I not pledged my honour as an Englishman to do nothing of the kind, I should have been chained up, as a dog, by the chief."
"And how were you released from your promise?"
"I was released by the death of the chief, Assad Khan, which occurred not many weeks ago," replied Walter. "His relative and successor is a Christian, one whom I shall have the joy of presenting to you to-day."
"And have you indeed, in this most wild and weed-choked corner of the mission-field, been privileged to gather in seven sheaves?" asked the Chaplain.
"Not through my efforts were the seven brought in," replied Walter with a smile. "The first convert made the more successful missionary. She was the means of winning for Christ her husband, her grandmother, and two female friends."
"What, a woman—and an Afghan!" exclaimed the Chaplain.
"A woman with the ardour of a Martha, and the faith of a Mary; an Afghan—with her naturally proud spirit softened and subdued by the love of Christ which constraineth."
"Most wonderful!" ejaculated the Chaplain.
"Dear sir," said Walter Gurney, "if we could have seen the painted savages who roamed in old times through our Britain, with their rude idols and barbarous rites, we might have thought that the Afghan suffers little by comparison with his brothers in the West. What is it that has made old England glorious and free but the Gospel? and what does Afghanistan need but the Gospel to make her the same!"
Walter spoke with the enthusiasm of one who has devoted seven of the best years of his life to the evangelisation of a despised race, and who sees of what that race is capable.
"You must have encountered immense difficulties," observed Mr. Coldstream, after a break in the conversation, caused by the extreme steepness of the rocky way, which at this part necessitated actual climbing.
"I could never have surmounted them in my own strength," said Walter. "When I look back, it is as I see that you are now doing, on the path which we have traversed,—wondering how I ever was enabled to gain the point which I have reached. God has led me step by step."
"And are your robbers actually transformed into anything like Christians?" inquired Mr. Coldstream.
"I own that some of the converts remind me of Lazarus, when called from the grave; they are living, but with their grave-clothes clinging around them. It is difficult to persuade men to whom theft has been a profession, and revenge a virtue, that these are sins to be repented of and forsaken. I have been under a great disadvantage; I have only had the New Testament with me; for whatever related to the older Scriptures I have had to trust my memory."
"This has been a serious disadvantage, indeed," said the missionary. "The law is our schoolmaster to bring us to Christ; both Jew and Christian have had its teachings from childhood, and even where conversion has not followed, it has raised the moral tone. To the heathen and Moslem we preach Christ crucified, and we do well, for the very sum and substance of the Gospel is contained in these two blessed words. But this seed of Truth, when received by those previously ignorant of the requirements of God's holy law, often springs up as I have seen an early crocus in England, when called forth by the beams of the sun, from ground on which snow still lingers. There is the bright blossom, and its very existence proves that it has a root; but it is destitute of leaves or stalk. Thus its beauty is often marred, and its purity soiled by earth."
"I see your meaning," said Walter, "and my own small experience confirms it. There is the flower of love, the root of faith; but the strong upright stem of conscientiousness appears to be wanting."
"It is on account of this," observed Mr. Coldstream, "that amongst converts from heathenism there is often conversion without any deep conviction of sin,—without the knowledge of the law we know not what sin is. In England, when the drunkard, the blasphemer, or the thief is brought to the light, his first feeling is usually horror at the blackness of his own sins. He abhors himself, and pours out his soul in penitent sorrow; he regards himself as a brand plucked from the burning, and dreads the flames of sin in which he so nearly has perished. As far as my experience goes, this deep sense of guilt is rare in our converts. The heart is touched, but not the conscience. They who have never listened to the thunders of Sinai have the love of Christ, but the fear of God is wanting. The missionary can no more leave such converts to themselves, than a mother can leave her babe. He rejoices at first in their simple faith, he thanks God for a new-born soul—till startled by some strange inconsistency which makes him, perhaps, doubt that faith, and fear that spiritual life itself is wanting. The pendulum of his feelings then may sway from the one extreme of excessive hope, into the opposite—and more dangerous one—of discouragement, if not despair."
"And what should the missionary learn from this painful experience?" asked Walter.
"Much patience, much watchfulness, and much prayer. Patience with those who never in childhood had the clear outlines which divide right and wrong marked out before their eyes—those who have breathed, as it were, a polluted atmosphere from their earliest days, and are therefore scarcely sensible of its evil. Watchfulness, to guard the weak ones as far as possible from temptation, and, by careful teaching, try to supply the want of early training. With these, earnest prayer for the Holy Spirit, who alone can purify the human heart—that long desecrated and polluted temple."
"How refreshing it is to talk over these difficulties with one who has experienced, and can therefore enter into them fully!" cried Walter. "As regards all human help, I have been so utterly alone; I have had to teach when I myself required to learn. I feel more strongly than ever the necessity of leaving my Afghan children for a-while, to become by study, and intercourse with the experienced, a less unworthy shepherd of souls."
The companions had now come within sight of the fort, which was not visible from a distance, but which nestled, as it were, between steep crags, partly clothed with brushwood.
"Most picturesquely situated!" exclaimed Mr. Coldstream.
"Its name of Eagle's Nest suits it well," observed Walter. "You see a party of Afghans thronging round the gate to receive us."
"Yes; and they look as if they were eagles with sharp claws and beaks," said the Chaplain, surveying the wild and not altogether friendly-looking group through which he was to pass. For the first time Mr. Coldstream doubted his own prudence in coming amongst them.
"Mustapha Khan! why have you brought your gun? You know that it is against orders," said Walter sternly; and with a wave of his hand he sent the offender to the rear.
"I should doubtthateagle being turned into a dove," observed Mr. Coldstream, as he passed through the gate.
"Oh, Mustapha has given some trouble," said Walter.
"And will give more, I suspect," added the Chaplain.
But the sight that met his eyes in the courtyard put from the missionary's mind all thoughts but those of surprise and joy. Around the well stood the candidates for baptism; the men on one side, the women on the other; the latter arrayed in white. Sultána was there in her radiant beauty, the bud expanded to the beautiful rose, supporting her aged silver-haired grandmother, whose face expressed the peace which the spirit had found, the light which at even-time had shone upon her soul. Two shy-looking women stood rather in the back-ground, shrinking from the gaze of a stranger. Opposite was Ali Khan, with two companions. The young chief came forward to greet the Chaplain with a frank friendliness which made Mr. Coldstream reproach himself for having for a moment entertained doubts.
"Welcome to the Eagle's Nest," cried the chief; "welcome in the name of the Lord!"
"Will you question the candidates?" suggested Walter. "I will translate for you sentence by sentence."
Mr. Coldstream's questions were few, and entirely confined to the men—save, when turning towards Sultána, he asked simply, "Do you love the Lord Jesus? Do you look for salvation only through Him?" The beaming look on the lovely countenance of the chieftain's wife, as she gave her brief reply, was, as the Chaplain afterwards said, like the smile on an angel's face.
With varied expressions on their swarthy features, the yet unconverted Afghans looked on as the holy service of baptism was performed before them. Curiosity was perhaps the most prevalent feeling; but here and there a Moslem was seen scowling with undisguised displeasure. Once or twice the Chaplain's ear caught an angry murmur of "Kafir!" but there was no open opposition. The missionary thought of the lion-tamer in his cage of wild beasts, and wondered at the power by which a single unarmed man had been able to subdue or overawe such savage natures.
The simple rite was now over; Ali Khan and his companions were now welcomed as members of Christ's visible Church upon earth. The Chaplain's heart was warm within him, but his pleasure was small compared to that of Walter. In the scene of former sufferings and perils, the young evangelist tasted what is perhaps the most exquisite draught of joy which is given to man on earth, for it is a foretaste of heaven itself. Who can tell the bliss expressed in the words,—"Lo, I and the children whom Thou hast given me." That hour gave to Walter for all his past difficulties, trials, and dangers "an overpayment of delight."
Mr. Coldstream, seated on a charpai overspread with a leopard's skin, partook of some refreshment prepared and brought by Sultána herself, Walter, Ali Khan, and the two Christian men sharing the meal. Mr. Coldstream admired the simple modest grace of the chieftain's wife, but remarked to Walter that she looked dejected.
"She feels—we all feel—the coming parting," was Walter's reply; "needful it is, but painful. I have had considerable difficulty in obtaining the chief's consent to my departure."
The hospitable meal was soon concluded. Mr. Coldstream could not linger long in the Eagle's Nest; the road being so difficult, he wished to retrace his steps before night.
"I must not, however, leave the fort," said the clergyman, "without seeing the prison from which poor Dermot Denis tried to make his escape."
Walter led the way up the ladder-staircase so often mentioned, into what had been his former prison.
"This is still my room," he observed, as he entered the small apartment, clean, but very scantily furnished. "I have made but few alterations, except that of transferring the strong lock from the outside to the inside of the door. I have now the advantage of being able to shut out intruders, instead of being myself locked in."
Mr. Coldstream went up to the aperture through which poor Denis had passed to his doom, and shuddered as he looked down through it on the precipice below.
"What an act of daring—or rather of madness—to attempt such a descent!" he exclaimed. "The idea of it renders one dizzy!"
"My poor friend was one who never knew fear!" observed Walter, and he sighed as he remembered the heroic, noble-looking horseman in whose company he had first entered the country of the Afghans.
In silence the two Englishmen quitted the room and descended into the court-yard. They found it crowded, not only by the inmates of the fort, but by Afghans who dwelt in scattered hamlets, but still belonged to the clan, and paid allegiance to its chief.
The time for parting had arrived. Walter could not quit a place where he had done and suffered so much, nor the spiritual children whom he loved, without a sore pang of regret. First in a few soul-stirring words he exhorted the Afghans to maintain their fidelity to Ali Khan, and stand by him, through weal or woe. Walter then turned towards the brave chief, and, after the manner of the country, locked him in a hearty embrace.
"The Lord be with you, and bless you, brother! and be your strong rock and fortress!" he cried.
"And bring you back to us soon!" exclaimed the chief.
"Mirza, you also are one of us," said Walter to another of the newly baptised; and embracing him the young evangelist added, "let my parting words to you be the exhortation of our Lord to His disciples—Watch and pray that ye fall not into temptation."
"You may trust me," said the Afghan; "my faith is as strong as my sword."
"Mir Ghazan, my friend," and again Walter's arms enfolded a burly-looking Afghan, "never forget the promise—Be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee a crown of life."
Mir Ghazan responded to the embrace, but uttered no word in reply.
Then Walter turned to the aged woman, and reverentially raised the withered hand to his lips. "Bless me, mother," he said, gently; "the hoary head is a crown of glory. We shall meet, if not in this world, in a better." The old widow melted into tears.
Oriental propriety forbade even a parting pressure of the hand between the Englishman and the younger women. But Sultána followed her spiritual guide as far as the gate, there to bid him farewell. She did not weep, but her pale cheek and quivering lip betrayed her emotion on the departure of him to whom she owed life, and what she valued much more than life.
"The God who guided you here, and guarded you here, and made you a blessing to us all, be with you wherever you go!" she faltered. Sultána added in a softer tone, "You will not forget your Afghan children when far, far away?"
"Forget you, Sultána? never! night and day my prayers will rise for you all."
"And you will come back to the Eagle's Nest?" said Sultána, with a sad, wistful look in her blue eyes, as she raised them to Walter's face.
"God permitting, I will surely come back," said Walter. He could not trust his voice to say more, but turned and rapidly strode down the hill in silence, which the sympathising Chaplain did not attempt to break. He noticed that Ali Khan and some of the Afghans were following at a little distance, to see the last of their English friend.
At the last point from which the Eagle's Nest was visible from the road, Walter Gurney paused, turned, and looked up. On the roof of the fort, in her white garments, stood Sultána; a cloud crimsoned with the sunset glow behind her head showed like a glory. It would hardly have seemed strange had white wings expanded behind her.
"A child of light!" murmured Walter Gurney. He stood still for a few moments as if fixed to the spot; not another word passed his lips, but his soul was pouring forth his silent thanksgiving. How marvellously had the fiery pillar, of which that cloud reminded him, led him through the dark night of affliction, suffering, and danger! His trials had turned into blessings; his troubles had worked together for lasting good. Walter Gurney had left memorials behind him on his pilgrim-path through the desert, living stones of priceless value that should, through all eternity, find a place in the heavenly city above.
What marvellous transformation scenes we behold in Nature! One day we look on the ocean, a seething mass of turbulent waters, leaden-tinted, save where the angry wind lashes it into foam; the next day a fair expanse of blue lies before us, scarcely dimpled with even a ripple, and sparkling in sunshine! Lingering winter has made some landscape dreary and bare; scarce a flower lifts up its head; the trees stand like gaunt skeletons without apparent sign of life. A few hot genial days, a blowing of wind from the south, and the whole scene is changed! The primrose nestles under every hedge, "the larch hangs her tassels forth," the meadows are enamelled with daisies, and the fruit-trees are decked with the loveliest blossoms! Again, dark moonless night broods around; not even a star gleams through the sable canopy of cloud; there is an incessant dripping of rain. Anon sunrise bursts over the landscape, the clouds are golden, the raindrops gems, all Nature laughs in brightness and beauty!
Such transformations occasionally occur in the life of man, especially after seasons of trouble bravely endured. Such a transformation was experienced by Walter after his return to India and civilised life. The interest which had been excited by his disappearance was intensified by his return. Afghanistan, on account of the war then commenced, being in every one's mind, a gentleman who had actually resided for seven years in a fort in that country was naturally an object of curiosity and attention. Walter found that every Englishman whom he met was his friend. Invitations followed invitations. Go where he might he found a home; he was welcomed into every circle. This was principally, but by no means entirely owing to young Gurney's romantic adventures. It was known that, though himself poor, he came of what the world calls a good family, and his popularity was also greatly due to the uncommon attractions with which Walter had been endowed by Nature. The ladies declared him to be the very beau-ideal of the hero of a romance.
There was some talk of a subscription being raised to place the young man at college, either in England or India, that he might complete his education, partially neglected in early life, and for seven years entirely suspended. But Sir Cæsar Dashley, a civilian of high position in the service, and a distant relative of Dermot Denis, insisted on taking the whole burden of expense on himself.
"I will be responsible for all charges," said he. "It is clear that Gurney's imprisonment was the result of his devotion to my unfortunate and gallant cousin. I am glad to have the opportunity of serving so fine a fellow. Whilst I remain in India, Gurney shall never want a home."
After much prayerful consideration, Walter decided on pursuing his studies in India; not because it cost him nothing to give up his long-cherished hope of visiting England, but because he would not unnecessarily tax the generosity of a friend, and also that he could best, by remaining in Hindustan, master other Oriental tongues besides those of Urdu and Pushtoo. Walter entered a college in one of the capital cities of India, and at once set to work with vigour. His mind was as a soil which produces a hundredfold after lying fallow for several years. Study, a weariness to many, was to Walter Gurney a source of pleasure. He enjoyed it for its own sake, and not merely as a means to an end. The consciousness of success in every effort which he made, was exhilarating to the young man's spirit. Walter was like one who arrives so late in a hunting-field that he fears that he will never overtake the riders whom he sees at a distance before him, but who finds that his first-rate steed not only overtakes, but soon leads on in advance of them all.
"We never before had a student here who combined such ardour and perseverance in study with such brilliant natural ability," observed a college professor to Walter's patron; "were he at Oxford or Cambridge we should some day hear of Gurney's coming out First Wrangler."
"And yet his fancy has been to qualify himself for the obscure work of a missionary; and in Afghanistan, too, of all places in the world!" exclaimed Sir Cæsar. "The idea is utterly absurd."
"Preposterous!" echoed the professor, "Gurney has too much common sense to throw such talents away."
The patron's generosity was not long required. When an account of Walter's adventures, concluding with the baptism in the Eagle's Nest, drawn up by Mr. Coldstream, appeared in theTimes, it excited general interest. The letter was copied into almost every other paper. Of course it reached the breakfast-table of his uncle, Augustus Gurney. The successful banker, who had now retired from business on a handsome fortune, was proud of the now famous nephew, whom in obscurity he had despised. Walter had not been two months in college before a black-edged letter arrived written in the same stiff hand as that whose contents, seven years before, had pleased him so little. This letter was comparatively kind, and contained, moreover, a cheque for three hundred pounds. Augustus was perhaps softened by trials which had come upon him during the years which had passed. He told his nephew of the successive deaths of two of his three sons by consumption. He let Walter know that if he chose to come to England he would have a welcome either in Eaton Square or at Claverdon Hall. Walter was pleased at the invitation, though he did not accept it, and wrote back a grateful letter of thanks.
The young man cashed his cheque, which appeared to him a mine of wealth. His first care—to him a delight—was to purchase numerous presents for Sultána, her husband, and many other friends in the Eagle's Nest. The difficulty was how to send them, for the city where Walter now resided was many hundreds of miles from the frontier, and it was by no means easy to make arrangements for the safe transmission of valuable goods through a country like Afghanistan, where utter lawlessness prevailed. Walter spared neither trouble nor expense, but still felt uncertainty as to whether either his gifts or his letters would reach the Eagle's Nest.
Walter's next care was to repay his pecuniary debt to Sir Cæsar—no small relief to the young man's mind. He procured a smaller cheque, which he enclosed in an envelope, with a note to his benefactor of thankful acknowledgment of kindness unsought. Sir Cæsar was sincerely glad that young Gurney had an uncle with a good long purse; put the cheque into his pocket, and the note into the waste-paper basket.
Walter was now, indeed, basking in the sun of prosperity, and his present good fortune was all the more dazzling from contrast with its dark antecedents. The first years of Walter's life had been spent in utter obscurity; and straitened means had at last seemed likely to end in utter destitution. Then had come a struggle which had involved loss of liberty, and perpetual hazard of life. This struggle, more or less severe, had lasted through nearly seven long years. Walter had never felt sure that some fierce fit of anger,—nay, some mere caprice of Assad Khan—might not bring on himself a bastinado, or even loss of eyes or head. Young Gurney had pursued evangelising work under difficulties which most men would have deemed insuperable. No trophy had been won from Islam without a perilous conflict. In addition to this harassing state of insecurity, it had been no small trial to Walter to be debarred from all intercourse with men of cultivated minds,—to live amongst the ignorant and savage, deprived of access to literature. Social intercourse was now a choice feast, and Walter partook of it with the relish of one who has been intellectually starved.
Young Gurney was not so utterly absorbed in his studies as to have no time for recreation, and he enjoyed intensely such pleasures as had on them no stigma of vice. Very delightful was it to go out in the cold weather, camping for a-while with Sir Cæsar, enjoying constant change of scene, and riding a spirited horse by the side of the Commissioner's daughter. Still more delightful, when camping season was over, to stand by the piano in the evening, and listen to, and join in, such classical music as enchanted his soul. The fair Flora never cared to sing solos when Walter's rich melodious voice was available for a duet. He watched her white jewelled fingers as they touched the instrument with faultless execution and exquisite taste, and almost felt, in the enthusiasm of his admiration, that he could look and listen for ever.
As Flora occupied an increasingly large place in Walter's thoughts, she must find some space in our pages. She was the eldest daughter of Sir Cæsar, and in the absence of her mother, whom ill health and the charge of younger children detained in England, Flora reigned supreme in the handsome establishment of the Commissioner Sahib. She was possessed of considerable personal beauty, and the Bird of Paradise was the sobriquet by which she was often spoken of in the circle of her admirers. There could scarcely have been a greater contrast than that between the training of the Bird of Paradise and that of the little Afghan Eaglet in her wild mountain nest. Imagination could hardly have pictured Flora Dashley scrambling about rocks barefoot, cooking her own dinner, or eating it with her fingers! Sir Cæsar, of rather pompous manner and ostentatious character, took pleasure in relating what fabulous sums he had spent on his daughter's education. She had had first-rate masters in music, drawing, and dancing, and to perfect her accomplishments had passed several years on the Continent. The result was such as perfectly to satisfy her father. In charms, personal and acquired, few could equal his Flora.
It was prognosticated as soon as the young lady joined Sir Cæsar in India, that before many months had passed she would certainly change her name. But years had passed, and she was Flora Dashley still. The Bird of Paradise enjoyed her freedom. She could hardly be more pleasantly situated than in the house of her wealthy father, with no heavier trials than the sleepiness ofpunkah-walas* or the spoiling of a dress by the moths. Besides unnumbered native servants to obey her commands, Flora had always some of her young countrymen eager to anticipate every wish, to break in a horse, or copy out music, or even undertake the heroic task of trying to tune her piano.
* Men employed in India to mitigate the heat by pulling a large fan.
It was a rich enjoyment to Walter to converse with so refined and highly educated a young lady; it was to him a new, and most delightful phase of existence. Walter seldom cared to talk to others of his life in the Afghan mountains, but Flora drew him out with her questions, and it thrilled the young man with pleasure to see the interest shown by her in his strange adventures. Walter was by no means certain that his charming companion had yet given her heart to the Lord; but was not her ready listening to accounts of conversions amongst the Afghans a sign that a missionary spirit was stirring within her? Gurney guessed not how utter would have been Flora's indifference had the tales been told by some grey-headed pastor.
Walter would fain have persuaded himself that the pains taken by Flora with the church-choir denoted pious inclinations; he cared not to think that her exquisite singing of hymns and sacred songs was due to her love of music, and not to her love of God. If her admirer could not hide from himself that the lady delighted in worldly amusements, Walter made every excuse for her education and present surroundings. Flora could enjoy reading a volume of Miss Havergal's beautiful poetry which he had placed in her hands; this Walter took as a token for good. He tried earnestly to draw the fair English maiden upwards, as he had been the means of drawing Sultána, and did not at first recognise the truth that, blinded by his admiration for Flora, he was making an excuse to his conscience for remaining in a position which imperilled his own spirituality.
But conscience, in Walter's breast, was too faithful a watchman to be easily silenced. If the Christian had found the pillar of fire his cheering light in the dark hours of tribulation, the pillar of cloud was now shading him from the more dangerous glare of prosperity's sun. It was not only that it kept his life pure in the midst of many temptations, but it made him search his own heart. Walter became painfully aware that, while advancing in everything else, he was not advancing in spiritual life. Secular study sometimes encroached on time that would otherwise have been given to study of Scripture; and the image of Flora's dark eyes intruded often on his devotions. Walter was not contented with his own state, and that uneasiness was in itself a good sign.
Was Walter's promise to Sultána forgotten amidst the eager pursuit of knowledge and the fascinations of civilised life? No; morn and even the little band of Christians in the Eagle's Nest were remembered in earnest prayer. But it is natural that visible surroundings and the interests of daily life should engage more constant attention than what belongs to memory alone. During the fascinating two years which Walter passed at college, he received no communication of any kind from his friends in the fort. Walter wrote repeatedly to Ali Khan in a large printed hand, which he had taught Sultána to read, but it need hardly be said that there was no available post to the mountain home. Walter was in uncertainty as to whether his letters or presents ever arrived, as no one in the fort was able to write. This difficulty of communication, with doubt as to its success, was very discouraging to Walter. It seemed as if he were as little able to exchange tidings with his Afghan friends as if they existed only in dreamland.
And, as time wore on, increasingly did Walter's engagement to return to his little flock in the mountains press on his heart like a chain. Every one with whom the young man entered on the subject, more or less condemned his plan as impracticable and wild. Yet Walter could not let himself be persuaded that a resolution made with earnest prayer should be put aside because man thought it unwise. The remembrance of the blessing which had followed his efforts in the Eagle's Nest could not be blotted out by college professors speaking of wasting talents, which would give him influence over thousands of educated minds, on a few bloodthirsty Afghans. Walter was not convinced when Sir Cæsar spoke indignantly of a promising, rising young man throwing himself utterly away; but, though unconvinced, Walter felt that inclination was constantly drawing him more and more away from a course pointed out by honour and duty, till he regarded almost with aversion the idea of returning to Afghanistan.
"I must end this miserable indecision," thought Walter, "and act as my conscience prompts."
Young Gurney wrote a letter to the committee of a Missionary Society in England, describing his own position. He informed the committee that a bishop in India had consented to ordain him, after a two years' course of study, should he pass the required examination. The examination would be over before a reply could be received from England, and should the result be favourable, Walter offered himself to the Society for a post in Afghanistan. He described the small nucleus of a Christian Church existing in the Eagle's Nest; it might be a centre of missionary effort amongst a people yet unreached by the Gospel. Walter mentioned no personal qualifications but fluency in Pushtoo, and an earnest desire to win souls.
Walter despatched his letter to England, and then confessed to Miss Dashley what he had done. Flora looked surprised, and a little annoyed, but presently said with a smile, "The committee will not accept you; you will have to submit to remain with us, Walter." It was the first time that the young lady had called him by his Christian name; how exquisitely sweet it was to hear that name from her lips!
"Would you believe it, papa?" said Flora to her father, who entered the room at that moment; "Mr. Gurney is offering himself for a mission in Afghanistan."