*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74306 ***







[Frontispiece: "A very striking figure was Assad Khan, as seen by the
light of torches carried by his attendants."--p. 87.]




  LIFE IN THE

  EAGLE'S NEST:


  A Tale of Afghanistan.



  BY

  A. L O. E.,
  (Charlotte Maria Tucker)

  AUTHORESS OF "THE CLAREMONT TALES," "NED FRANKS," "SHEER OFF,"
  "THE WHITE BEAR'S DEN," ETC.



  London:
  GALL & INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
  AND EDINBURGH.




PREFACE.

The Authoress of the following tale has often said that she has
devoted her pen to her adopted country, India.  Has she then changed
her purpose in again writing a story for British readers?  No; though
in a different way, she is still seeking to serve the Missionary
cause.  A.L.O.E. wants money for her "Mission Plough," a School for
Mohammedan and heathen boys in Batala, and it occurred to her that
hours, not taken from her city work, might be given to earning
something by literary effort.

The School which A.L.O.E. thus attempts to prop up by her quill,
sprang out of a felt want.  Native boys were willing to hear the
Gospel, and in the Government School were taught no religion at all.
The Missionary Society to which A.L.O.E. belongs, restricts its
attention to women and girls; of course not a penny could be taken
from its funds for boys, though teaching them indirectly helps the
Zenana work--the seed of truth being sometimes carried by them to the
very strongholds of feminine bigotry.

Thus the "Mission Plough" is supported by no society; the expenses
are to be met by personal effort, or the assistance of those who
sympathise with its object.  A.L.O.E  most gratefully acknowledges
the great liberality with which kind friends have come to her aid.
May the Lord reward them a thousandfold for what they have done!




  CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER

  I. NEWS FROM ENGLAND
  II. A SUDDEN CHANGE
  III. GILDING RUBS OFF
  IV. FAIRLY STARTED
  V. A ROUGH WAY
  VI. THE MOUNTAIN CHILD
  VII. THE STRUGGLE COMES
  VIII. PRISON LIFE
  IX. THE AFGHAN CHIEF
  X. CONSCIENCE AWAKENED
  XI. REPENTANCE AND REPARATION
  XII. THE HOUR OF PERIL
  XIII. A DARING ATTEMPT
  XIV. SPEAK OR DIE!
  XV. THE KNOTTED ROPE
  XVI. AFTER SEVEN YEARS
  XVII. A RICH REWARD
  XVIII. NOONTIDE GLARE
  XIX. DECISION
  XX. A POST OF PERIL
  XXI. THE ATTACK
  XXII. WHERE THE PILLAR RESTED




LIFE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST.



CHAPTER I.

NEWS FROM ENGLAND.

"The post-dák at last!" exclaimed Walter Gurney, springing to his
feet, as, encompassed by a cloud of dust, the vehicle for which he
had been watching appeared in the distance, the flourish of a horn
announcing its approach.  The youth had been reclining under the
shade of a peepul tree, at the side of the road which led to a
frontier station on the border line which divides India from the land
of the Afghans.  The post had always to be met at this point by
Walter, as the horses were never turned down the rude road which led
to a missionary's bungalow, situated about two miles off, almost
close to a native village.  The Rev. William Gurney, till his death,
which had occurred about two months ere my story opens, had always
dwelt amongst his poor flock, "the world forgetting, by the world
forgot."  The missionary's sole companion had been Walter, his only
son, whom he had himself educated in India, the neighbourhood of
mountains preventing the absolute necessity of his sending his
motherless boy to England.

This was the third time that Walter had anxiously gone to meet the
home mail.  By his dying father's desire he had remained at Santgunge
till he should receive a letter from his grandmother in London, in
answer to the announcement of the missionary's death.  Walter could
not form any plans for his own future till he should hear from the
nearest relative now left to him upon earth.

The expected letter was handed down by the coachman to Walter, and
with another blast of the horn the dák-gári* rattled on its way.
Walter returned to the peepul tree, and, leaning against its trunk,
examined the envelope of the letter before opening it to read the
contents.


* Post-cart or carriage.


"Black-edged, but not written in my grandmother's hand.  She must
have been ill, which would account for her not writing before.  The
news which I sent must have grieved her sorely."

Walter broke open the letter and glanced at the signature at the end;
it was that of his uncle, whose handwriting was strange to the youth.
Augustus Gurney, the wealthy banker, had never cared to keep up
intercourse with a brother who had demeaned himself, as he thought,
by becoming a humble missionary.  The stiff, formal, business-like
writing was characteristic of him who had penned it.  The letter was
dated from Eaton Square, 1871.


"DEAR WALTER,--The melancholy announcement of your father's decease
never reached your grandmother; it arrived on the day of her funeral.
I have delayed writing till all affairs were settled.  You asked for
directions for your future course, and whether there were any means
of your finishing your education in some college in England.  You
shall receive a frank reply.  My mother's income being only a life
annuity, ceased at her death; she had no property to leave.  There
are no funds available to pay your passage home or start you in life.
Every profession here is overcrowded.  You must not look to me, as I
have three sous to provide for, and I never approved of the course
which your father chose to take.  You had better try to find some
employment in India.  Doubtless you have there plenty of friends;
here you would be amongst strangers.--Your affectionate uncle,

AUGUSTUS GURNEY."


"Strangers indeed," muttered Walter between his clenched teeth.  "Can
this man, I will not call him uncle, actually receive the news of the
death of his only brother, a brother whom he always neglected, a
brother of whom he should have been proud, without so much as a
feeling of remorse, or one word of sympathy to his orphan?  He does
not wish to be burdened with a poor relation!  He shall certainly
never be troubled by me!"  Walter crushed up the letter in his bands,
and with long rapid strides took his way along the rough,
weed-overgrown path which led to his desolate home.  Bitter were the
orphan youth's reflections.

"'Doubtless you have plenty of friends,'" he writes.  "Did my uncle
know nothing of the isolated life of self-denial led by my father
amongst our ignorant peasants?  I have seen nothing of the world;
know no one to take me by the hand.  Though I have a passion for
study, I have not received the educational advantages that would fit
me for Government employment.  I have led a kind of Robinson Crusoe
life; I can shoot, can turn a straight furrow, ride, plant trees, and
do a little carpenter's work; talk to natives of India or Afghanistan
in half-a-dozen jargons; but I know little of mathematics, am only
self-taught in Latin; I could pass no examination,--at least I doubt
that I could,--and I have no funds to support me till I could study
up for one.  I changed my last rupee to-day."

It may be little to the credit of Walter that indignation towards his
uncle and anxiety about his own future were the first thoughts that
came into his mind on learning of the death of his aged relative in
England.  But Walter, brought up in the wilds of Santgunge, had never
seen his grandmother nor received any letter from her.  Once a-month
an epistle from the old lady had regularly reached her missionary
son, with a brief message to his boy at the end.  Before Walter
reached his home, more gentle feelings prevailed.  He could feel
thankful that parent and son had both been spared the pang of
bereavement which had wrung his own heart.  Walter thought of the
joyful surprise of the meeting above of those who for twenty years
had been severed on earth.

"Yes, a time will come when we shall care little whether our path was
rough or smooth on earth; whether it led upwards to distinction, or
downwards to poverty and trouble," said Walter to himself, as he
entered the little bungalow in which he had dwelt from his birth.  It
was a most unadorned dwelling, built chiefly of sun-dried bricks, and
by no means in good repair, for the rains had injured the walls, and
white ants eaten into the timber.  The interior matched the outside;
a few prints and texts, with an old brown map, were the only
ornaments; the rough mat on the brick floor had been worn into holes
by the tread of many bare feet.  A few chairs and a table, a bookcase
and its contents, chiefly religious books, reports, and Urdu
pamphlets, summed up the furniture of the room which Walter entered.
The youth's own appearance was in character with his surroundings.
His clothes, originally of common material, were worn almost
threadbare.  Walter was tall and slight, and the first impression
which a stranger would receive was that he was overgrown and
underfed.  Though his age was barely seventeen, there were signs of
care on his countenance, and a sunken look under his eyes that told
of months of night watching and daily hardship.  Yet a second glance
at his form, and the broad expansive brow from which the weary lad
now pushed back the wavy auburn hair, might suggest a presage that
after a few years the figure might be remarkably fine, the
countenance singularly intellectual.

Walter threw himself on a chair.  Raising his eyes, their glance
rested on a picture with time-stained margin, which had been familiar
to him from his earliest childhood.  The youth's almost sole
recollection of his mother was her explaining the meaning of the
print to her little boy, then young enough to be raised in her arms.
The print represented the Israelites encamped at night in the desert,
their tents made visible by the light streaming from the pillar of
fire before them.  That print had been, as it were, the text of the
last exhortation which Walter had heard from his father, which
vividly now recurred to the mind of the desolate youth.

"God may lead us into the desert, my boy, but it is a blessed way if
His presence go with us.  The eye of faith still sees the pillar of
cloud and fire to guide us wherever God wills we should go, and we
are safe--ay, and happy--as long as we follow the path marked out by
Him who is all wisdom and love."

"The pillar has for me long rested over this place," said Walter to
himself; "I would not have left my father, with his broken health, to
struggle on alone.  But now the pillar will move on,--I wonder
whither!  I had hoped to England--and Cambridge--with future honour
and usefulness beyond.  That letter has dashed down all my air-built
castles!  The desert around me looks very bare; but O my God!--my
father's God! do Thou guide me, and give me grace and courage to
follow on, nor turn aside to the right or the left."

Walter knelt down in his desolate home, and in a short but fervent
prayer commended himself to the guardian care of a Saviour God.  He
arose from his knees cheered and refreshed.  Walter then applied
himself to the homely care of preparing his evening meal, for, soon
after his father's death, he had dismissed his only servant.  Some of
the native flock would willingly have worked for the missionary's
son, without hope of payment beyond that of a kind look and word, but
their offers had been declined with grateful thanks by the orphan.

Walter's gun had on this day supplied him with a more sumptuous
repast than usually fell to his lot; but he had emptied his
powder-flask for the charge which had brought down his pheasant, and
had no means of filling it again.  The youth, as he plucked off the
beautiful feathers of his prize, saw in their loveliness a pledge
that He who had so clothed the bird of the jungle would not leave His
child uncared for.  Walter had to light his fire, and cook his food,
as well as provide it.  His kitchen was the open air; his
oven--native fashion--was formed of dried mud, and was of the
simplest construction.  The apparatus comprised merely a few brass
vessels, and an iron plate for cooking _chapatties_.*  While the
pheasant was being stewed, Walter proceeded to prepare this simple
substitute for the bread, which was a rare luxury in Santgunge.
Skilled as he was by practice, round balls of dough in Walter's hand
were successively patted out and flattened, then spread on the heated
iron and turned, till a nicely browned chapattie was ready.  Walter,
engaged in his humble occupation, and absorbed in thoughts quite
unconnected with chapatties, did not notice the sound of a horse's
hoofs, and was rather startled by the loud voice of its rider, which
suddenly broke on the silence.


* Flat unleavened cakes.




CHAPTER II.

A SUDDEN CHANGE.

"Koi hai? any one there?" the usual summons to a servant in India,
brought Walter to his feet.  Turning, he saw in the horseman,
splendidly mounted, who appeared before him, a gentleman whom he had
only once met before, about three months previously, but whom he
instantly recognised.  Walter would have done so had thrice as many
years intervened since the meeting.

For Dermot Denis was not one to be quickly forgotten.  He was upwards
of six feet in height, and with form graceful as well as powerfully
built.  A quantity of thick curly hair, of a tint that might be
called golden, surmounted an intelligent face, both handsome and
pleasant, whose grey eyes sparkled with life and fun.  Walter had, as
has been mentioned, seen Denis but once before; but it was under
circumstances that had made a deep impression on his mind.

It had been a time of great trouble amongst the native Christians of
Santgunge.  Their crops had utterly failed.  Their missionary was
sinking under a slow and painful disease.  Mr. Gurney, who felt the
trials of his people more than his own, desired Walter to pay a visit
to an official at the nearest station, which was fifteen miles away,
to try to induce him to give some relief.  It was a commission
distasteful to the youth.  He disliked playing the beggar, and had no
faith in his own powers of persuasion.  It was shyly that he told his
father's message to the official, whom he found entertaining the
handsome Irishman.

"I wish I could do more for your people," said the official, placing
five rupees on the table; then, as if changing the subject, he turned
and said, "Let me introduce you to Mr. Dermot Denis, an Irish
gentleman, who, having more time and money on his hands than he knows
what to make of, has come to India in search of adventures.  Mr.
Denis, this is the son of a missionary who, for twenty years, in a
desolate jungle, has devoted his life to attempts to convert the
natives."

The cordial shake of the young Irishman's hand which followed this
introduction was gratifying to Walter, and still more so was the
currency note for a hundred rupees which was frankly and pleasantly
given.  Walter could hardly utter a word of thanks, but his heart
felt deeply grateful.  Joyfully he bore back the large contribution,
which his sick father received almost with tears, as a gift from
heaven.

"God bless the generous donor!" he faltered.

"O father!  I wish that you could have seen him!" exclaimed Walter,
with the enthusiasm of youth.  "I never met with any one like him, he
looked so bright and brave!  How noble he must be in whom wealth and
position have raised no pride, one who gives without being asked, and
in a manner so frank and kind!"

The parting words of Denis to Walter had been, "I'll some day invade
you in your jungle, and see the fruits of your good father's attempts
to manufacture monkeys into men."

And now the Irishman had kept his promise.  Walter eagerly went
forward to meet him, wrung his hand warmly, and in few words told him
of the heavy loss which he himself had sustained.

"And you're here all alone!" exclaimed Denis, as he dismounted; "just
call your _sais_ (_groom_); my man has fallen desperately ill on the
road--I had to leave him behind."

"I am my own _sais_, and will be yours," said Walter, laying his hand
on the horse's bridle to lead it away.

"Groom and cook too? you're a clever fellow!" cried Denis, gaily.
"I'm glad that I've caught you just at dinner-time, for I'm
desperately hungry.  Just returned from a long expedition, riding day
and night from dawn to sunset.  I'll just turn into the house and
have a smoke, whilst you look after the bay."

Even had Walter had no reason to feel grateful towards Denis, he was
much too hospitable to grudge the stranger a share of the dinner
which was to have lasted himself for two meals, though he had had
nothing but chapatties on the previous day, and it was doubtful when
he would again be able to procure anything more substantial.

When Walter re-entered the dwelling, carrying with him the stewed
pheasant and chapatties, he found his guest seated at his ease on a
chair, with his feet on the table, smoking.  Denis threw away his
cigar, put down his feet, and applied himself with vigour to the
occupation of eating his dinner, demolishing more than two-thirds of
the pheasant, whilst talking all the time.

"A most unlucky chance for me, my fellow's falling ill!" he
exclaimed.  "He was a regular brick; could jabber several languages,
was clever at everything--of course cheating his master included.  I
daresay that he shammed sickness, because he had no fancy to go where
I am going.  How to supply his place I know not.  By-the-by, do you
happen to know anything of Pushtoo?"*


* The language of the Afghans.


"I know it pretty well," replied Walter, who was a very good
linguist; "Afghans frequently pass this way; we have had one here for
weeks who has just recovered from a troublesome illness, and is going
back to his home.  He is a Kandahar man."

"A Kandahar man!" exclaimed Denis eagerly.  "That's just what I
wanted.  Do you think that he would act as my guide into Afghanistan?"

"You do not mean that you think of crossing the border?" said Walter
in surprise.

"Cross it? yes, and go a great way beyond it--as far as Kandahar,
possibly to Kabul; I have a great object before me," said Denis,
mysteriously lowering his voice.

"You are hardly aware of the danger----"

"Danger!" interrupted Denis, "I revel in danger.  I know that the
Afghans, every mother's son of them, are thieves and cut-throats;
they slice off your head, and then----"

"And then?" said Walter, smiling.

"You have something to put into a book."

Walter could not help laughing at the Hibernian's bull; but resuming
his grave expression he observed, "I do not think that you fully know
what you would undertake."

"I know everything!" cried Denis, a little impatiently; "I've had it
all dunned into me by every one whom I've met, but all I've heard
only strengthens my resolution to go.  I'm sick of travelling about
in a place like India, where every black fellow salams you, and vows
he's your slave.  I've done India thoroughly all round; seen all
that's to be seen, and much more.  I've visited no end of Hindu
mosques and Mohammedan temples, have dined with the Viceroy, and
taken pot-luck with the Brahmins.  Now I want something new and
exciting.  Besides, as I told you, I've an object in view.  I'm
going, if all the world should cry 'stay.'"  And with a look of stern
determination, Denis finished off the last bit of the pheasant.

Then followed a few seconds of silence.  It was broken by Denis
exclaiming, with the joyousness inspired by a happy thought: "I say,
Walter, you will come with me!  You know the language, you have made
friends with the Afghans; having you with me would increase a
thousandfold my chance of getting back with a whole skin.  You're a
good shot, I suppose?"--he glanced at a gun in a corner.

"Fair," replied Walter Gurney, who hardly ever missed his aim.

"You have a horse, I suppose?"

"A hill-pony,--not much of a mount."

"But, doubtless, he can keep his legs on the mountains; you're not
such a weight as I am, though pretty nearly as tall.  Yes, yes,
you're just the companion I wanted; a jovial young chap, sticking at
nothing, who can ride, shoot, cook, groom a horse, and I daresay shoe
it at a pinch, and who will think no more of danger than I do."

The blood mantled on Walter's cheek; he was young, and his heart beat
high at the thought of adventures; besides, he knew that it was true
that his knowledge of Afghan character, customs, and language, might
possibly be the means of even saving the life of his imprudent
friend, who scarcely opened his lips without making a blunder.  Denis
saw Walter's look of hesitation, and eagerly pushed his advantage.

"We'll strike a fair bargain!" the Irishman cried.  "You go with me
for one or two months, and I'll take you back with me to England.
You're poor--there's no disgrace in that; I happen to have a full
purse; I'll share with you as if you were my brother.  I'll see to
your education, and start you in life; you shall never know a want
whilst Dermot Denis has a sovereign left.  It's a bargain!  Give me
your hand on it, old boy!"  And Denis stretched out his own.

How rapidly thoughts fly through the mind--more rapidly than fingers
can trace them!  "Is not this an answer to my prayer?" thought
Walter.  "A few minutes ago I felt, as regards earth, friendless,
penniless, desolate!  At once, how unexpectedly a friend and the
means of future independence are given me!  If I risk something, is
it not for a hero, a benefactor, one who has shown me kindness
unsought!  Then the journey itself may be an opening for good.  My
father often expressed hopes that a day might come when mission-work
might be pushed on beyond the frontier--the Afghans were frequently
in his prayers.  May I not hope to carry the Gospel to some of the
wild people of the mountains, several of whom have enjoyed the
hospitality of my parent, and received some instruction from his
lips.  I believe that my 'fiery cloudy pillar' is moving towards the
hills."

"How long will you keep me with my hand stretched out like a
sign-post, waiting till you come to a decision which I see that you
have jumped at already?" the Irishman cried.

Walter grasped the strong, sun-burnt hand.  The silent bargain was
concluded; no signed and sealed bond could have made it more firm, at
least as regarded the missionary's son.




CHAPTER III.

GILDING RUBS OFF.

An interruption now occurred in the arrival of two large
heavily-laden mules with their drivers.

"Ah, there comes my luggage at last!" exclaimed Denis, jumping up
from his seat, and going forth to meet them.  "I hope, Walter, that
your goods and chattels will pack into the very smallest dimensions,
for as my beasts have as much as they can bear, they can't well carry
very much more."

"A case of 'The last feather breaks the camel's back,'" observed
Walter.

"I never could make out the sense of that proverb," said the
Irishman.  "I'd put the last feather first, and the camel would not
so much as feel it."

Walter glanced at the speaker to see if he were in jest or earnest;
but Denis's handsome face betrayed no consciousness that he had been
talking nonsense.

"My pony," said young Gurney, "can carry the few things which I shall
require; I shall walk, and lead it."

Dermot Denis was busy with one of his trunks which had been removed
from the mule and placed on the ground.  He extracted from it a
corkscrew and a bottle of brandy, and with these returned to the
house, followed by Walter.

"I'm glad that the rascals brought the mules in time," said the
Irishman, seating himself, and applying the screw to the cork.  "You
and I must finish our dinner with a 'dhrop of the cratur,' as my
countrymen say."

"Thanks; but I never taste wine or spirits."

"Oh, nonsense; if you've never done it yet, you must do it now, if
only for good fellowship.  You've not been ass enough to take the
pledge, I suppose?"  Denis had the bottle between his knees, and out
came the cork.

"Excuse me for two minutes," said Walter, and he went hastily into
the inner apartment.  There on a table lay his Bible, his desk, and a
few scattered papers and books.

"Here is a new danger," said Walter to himself.  "I had better do at
once what I have often thought of doing."  He opened his Bible,
dipped his pen, and in a firm bold hand wrote on the fly-leaf, "I
declare that I will never, except by medical advice or at communion,
let a drop of alcohol pass my lips."  Walter signed the declaration,
added the date, and returned to the room where Denis was mixing his
brandy and water.  The Irishman pushed the bottle towards him.  "I
have taken a pledge," said Walter.

"When did you take it?"

"I took it just now."

Denis gave a little whistle of surprise.  Walter had made up his mind
that his friend would be angry at opposition from one so much his
inferior in age and position; but the frank face of Denis did not
look angry, it had only an expression of half-contemptuous pity,
which was to Walter harder to bear.  No man, especially a very young
one, likes to be thought weak-minded by the companion to whom he
looks up.  It was the doubt how he himself could bear perpetually to
oppose himself to the wishes of his benefactor that had made Walter
take the decided step of signing the pledge.  "Well, you're the
loser, I'm the gainer, for my liquor will last the longer," said
Denis, raising his glass to his lips.  "But," he observed, as he set
it down empty, "if you fancy that you will curry favour with the
Mohammedans by giving way to their nonsensical prejudices regarding
wines, you'll find that you are greatly mistaken.  They don't follow
their Vedas* at all."  (Denis, it appears, did not know any
difference between the Vedas and the Koran.)  "The Mohammedan drinks
on the sly.  He sits on his carpet spread on the floor, with his
brandy-bottle in one hand and his hookah in the other, and drinks
till he rolls under the table."  Denis spoke authoritatively, as one
who knows a great deal more about Eastern habits than a youth who had
spent all his years in India.  Walter did not care to contradict him.
Half-an-hour before Denis had been a hero in his eyes; the gilded
image of a chivalrous knight was already losing a little of its
brightness.


* Hindu Scriptures.


"Now, take me to your Kandahar man; I'll strike my bargain at once.
He shall guide us through the Afghan passes."

Walter led the way into the native village, which was not many steps
distant from what had been the home of the pastor.  It was much like
other villages in India--a congregation of mud-huts, with not a pane
of glass to be seen, but was somewhat cleaner than those of the
heathen.  One small, neat building of brick, with a bell hung aloft,
showed that it possessed a place for Christian worship.  Swarthy
natives came out of what Denis called their ant-hill; women stood in
the doorways, to stare at the unwonted sight of a European stranger.
There were swarms of children of both sexes and all ages, who
received many a kind word from Walter as they stood smiling and
salaming.

"Fancy passing all one's life among such as these!" exclaimed Denis,
shrugging his shoulders.  "Do you dignify these bare-footed blackies
by the name of Christians?"

"My father has baptised more than forty," replied Walter, "but the
majority----"

"Where's the Kandahar fellow?" asked Denis, who had no taste for
anything like a missionary report.

Walter led the way into a mud-built dwelling.  The Irishman did not
stoop his tall form sufficiently to avoid knocking his head as he
entered, and in the semi-darkness stumbled over a recumbent calf
which shared the dwelling.  Hanif, the Afghan, wrapped in a blanket,
was lying on his _charpai_.*


* Native bedstead.


Conversation was at once entered upon by Denis, Walter acting as his
interpreter.  The Afghan looked astonished at the opening sentences,
and burst forth into rapid, excited utterances.

"What on earth is the fellow saying?" asked Denis with impatience.

"He is vowing by his Prophet's beard that he will not undertake to
guide you; that the Feringhee* must be mad to think of crossing the
frontier.  Hanif declares that if you did reach Kandahar by his
means, he would be bastinadoed, or lose his hand or his head; and
that if you were murdered on the way, the Feringhees would insist on
his being hanged, however innocent he might be.  Really," said
Walter, in a tone of expostulation, "I think that there is some
reason in what the man says.  I wish that you would turn your
thoughts in some other direction."


* Natives call Europeans Feringhees.


"Give your advice when it's asked for," said Denis, pettishly.  "If
you're afraid to accompany me, I let you off your agreement.  You may
stay and vegetate here amongst your niggers."

"I am not afraid," commenced Walter, who was a good deal nettled;
"but----"

His new friend cut him short: "Tell the fellow I'll pay him treble
what he could fairly demand.  Afghans would do anything for gold."

And so it proved.  Hanif's eyes glistened at the thought of the large
payment offered; and as the _bard sahib_ (great gentleman) was
evidently so rich, perhaps an idea of helping to relieve him of some
of his goods by the way made the Pathan less reluctant to run some
risk.  Was he not accustomed to hazard his life for _loot_ (plunder)?
So the bargain was struck; the party were to start early on the
following morning.

Denis returned to the house.  Walter remained to make arrangements
with a respectable Christian native employed as a catechist as to the
care of his own trifling property during his absence.  He gave him
the keys of the dwelling, to which some missionary might perhaps be
sent before long.

The little church-bell was rung--such was the custom at Santgunge--to
gather the native Christians for devotions before they retired to
rest.  As, surrounded by simple worshippers, Walter joined in the
praise and the prayer, again he solemnly devoted himself to his God,
before proceeding on what might prove to be a dangerous journey.
Then, after exchanging kind words and good wishes with those who
loved him for his father's sake as well as his own, the missionary's
son returned to his dwelling.

Denis, having had his own way, had quite recovered his temper, and
was in exuberant spirits when Walter joined him.

"I wondered how long you were going to leave me to my own
meditations, with no light but that of my cigar, while you enjoyed
the intellectual conversation of your niggers, so soon to be
exchanged for company so insipid as mine!" he said, laughing, as
Walter entered the room.

Young Gurney, by lighting a lamp, soon dispelled the darkness.  In
the gaiety of his heart Denis drew his chair closer to Walter's, and
was inclined to be quite confidential.

"I don't mind telling you, old boy--for I know you'll be silent as
the grave--what is my great object in pushing on beyond the border.
You'll not breathe a word to a soul alive."

"Mr. Denis," said Walter, "we are going amongst Afghans, one of whose
characteristics is intense curiosity.  We shall be questioned and
cross-questioned on every point, and often silence is in itself a
reply."

"Oh, I'm a match for Afghans!" cried Denis lightly; "I can lie like a
Persian--only, unluckily, I don't know the language they lie in!"

"I do know the language, and I cannot lie," observed Walter;
"therefore I had better be in ignorance of anything that you wish to
remain concealed."

"You mean that ignorance would be bliss to you, and safety to me!"
cried Denis.  "You would not wilfully let the cat out of the bag, but
you could not help her mewing in it.  Well, be it as you wish; I will
not reveal to you my great object.  But--oh here's just what I want,
a supply of paper; I've a bottle of ink, and pens, but I quite forgot
the paper!"  Denis's hand was upon about a quire of letter-sized
paper, on the first six or seven pages of which something had been
written, which he was about to tear off in order to throw them away.

"Hold!" exclaimed Walter hastily, laying his hand on the Irishman's
arm.  "That's valuable; that's my father's writing,--a translation of
the Gospel into Pushtoo which he began but never lived to finish.
You shall have other paper.  I mean to take this with me," and he put
the manuscript into his bosom.

"Now there's one thing I want to say to you, Walter Gurney," began
Dermot Denis, looking his companion full in the face; "you've been
brought up in the midst of a great deal of religious talk with all
sort of puritanical notions, till I daresay you think it a deadly sin
to look at a bottle, or dance a polka, or shuffle a pack of cards.
You're welcome to your thoughts if you keep them to yourself.  But
we're going amongst a pack of rabid Moslems, and if they come on the
subject of religion, the least contradiction on your part will make
them fly at our throats.  I'm not going to wave a red flag in the
face of a bull.  If the bigots question me I'll say I'm a
philosopher, with no particular notions; that will save me from all
the troublesome arguments on ticklish subjects that I don't
understand.  And I desire you'll do just the same."

Walter coloured to the roots of his hair, but he returned with steady
firmness the gaze of his comrade.  "I'll never deny my faith," he
said, laying his clenched hand on the table; "in religious matters I
will be in bondage to no man, and if God gives me an opportunity of
speaking a word for Him, I can never engage to be silent.  If you do
not accept this condition, sir, it will be impossible for me to
remain your companion."

Denis tried to laugh off his annoyance, but there was more of irony
than of mirth in his laugh.  "Hear how the young cock crows!" he
cried, "when hardly out of the shell.  He'll sing a different note
when his feathers are grown.  Good-night, my puritanical friend, I'm
going to bed; as we start to-morrow, I hope that you'll awake in the
morning a wiser and a merrier man."  And taking up the solitary lamp,
Denis retreated into the inner room, leaving Walter Gurney to
darkness and his own reflections.

These reflections were by no means agreeable.  If the gilded image of
a knightly man had before appeared dimmed to Walter, it was now as if
fragments dropping off from what had seemed like armour had betrayed
the plaster of Paris beneath.  When Walter had grasped the hand of
Denis as a pledge that he would, if needful, follow him to the death,
the Irishman had appeared to him in the light of a hero, generous,
gallant, and noble--a Cœur de Lion, Bayard, Sir Philip Sidney in
one.  Walter, with boyish enthusiasm,--for he was little more than a
boy,--had imagined his handsome young benefactor, protector, and
friend, all that he desired him to be.  They had now been but a few
hours together, and the youth had already seen folly, vanity,
selfishness, and a want of principle in his companion.  Walter would
fain have recalled the feelings with which he had welcomed his
friend, and accused himself of ingratitude, fickleness, and
presumption for so quickly altering his opinion of one whom he still
desired to honour, for he still felt strongly disposed to love him.

But Walter's judgment was not now in fault.  He was simply beginning
to see Denis as he actually was.  Not that the bold, dashing
traveller was what the world would regard as a bad man; on the
contrary, he was made to be its favourite.  Brought up in the
atmosphere of a pleasant home, Denis was addicted to no particular
vice.  He was said to bear a high character, and to be liberal almost
to a fault.  Yes, Denis was liberal when to be so cost him no
sacrifice of self-love.  He could throw a sovereign to a beggar, but
he would not have parted with his last cigar even to his dearest
friend.  But Denis had no very dear friend.  As his judgment was
shallow, so his affections were weak.  He was almost an
exemplification of the witty description of a man whose heart is the
exact size of his coffin--it can hold nothing but himself.  Denis's
ruling passions were vanity, selfishness, and an intense thirst for
admiration.  He had had too much of the last-mentioned sweet poison
already, and to imbibe it seemed a necessity of his nature.  It was
this, and love of excitement which made the young Irishman undertake
dashing adventures.  He would rather have been talked about for his
faults and follies than not be talked about at all.




CHAPTER IV.

FAIRLY STARTED.

The two companions shared the single sleeping apartment in the small
house.  Thus Walter could not but observe that Denis commenced the
day on which a dangerous journey would be begun without anything like
prayer.  It was no small effort to Walter to bow the knee when he
felt that Denis's eyes were watching his movements, and that the gay
adventurer would be likely to despise the spirit of devotion which he
did not himself possess.  Walter was much disposed to go out into the
jungle, and there--alone with his God--pour out his supplications for
his friend as well as himself.  But conscience told Walter that it
was chiefly moral cowardice that prompted the love of solitude.  He
remembered, that thrown closely together as he and Denis must be for
a considerable length of time, it was far better to meet the
difficulty at once, and openly show his colours.  After Walter's
usual reading of the Scriptures, he therefore knelt down, and in
silent but earnest supplication committed himself to his Heavenly
Guide.  The youth confessed his own weakness, and asked for strength,
for grace never to be ashamed of his religion, whether in the
presence of those who might mock, or those who might threaten.  The
missionary's son rose with a spirit refreshed.  Denis had left the
apartment.  Walter knew not how his comrade regarded his conduct.  If
he could have read the mind of Denis he would have seen there a
feeling of slight annoyance, for if anything can make a worldly man's
conscience uneasy, it is the contrast between his own carelessness
and the earnestness of another.  But Denis had not at all a
troublesome conscience--it scarcely ever gave token of its existence.
The Hibernian thought exceedingly well of himself.  One thing on
which he prided himself was his tolerance; he extended it so widely
that it embraced every form of spiritual error, and made him yield a
little indulgence even to the devotion of what he would call a
narrow-minded puritan like Walter Gurney.

When Walter went forth, he found his companion giving directions in
most imperfect Urdu to the mule-drivers.

"Oh, come here and make these stupid fellows understand me," cried
Denis; "they've no more brains than the beasts that they lead."

A few intelligible words from Walter soon made matters clear.  "Are
we to start at once, Mr. Denis?" he inquired.

"Oh, don't 'Mister' me, as Rob Roy said," cried the Hibernian, in his
frank, pleasant tone.  "We're sworn brothers in the field; you're
Walter, and I Dermot Denis."

When Walter saw the young Irishman again, mounted on his beautiful
steed, in the pride of his manly strength, the breeze playing with
the golden locks which curled beneath his white helmet-shaped _topi_*
and the picturesque folds of muslin which enwreathed it, again the
feeling of admiration came back to the heart of the youth like a tide
that had but ebbed for a while.  Denis, fearless in heart and buoyant
in spirit, appeared again as the _preux chevalier_, the bravest of
the brave.


* A kind of hat specially constructed to protect the bead from the
sun.


[Illustration: "Denis talked of the voyage to England, and Walter's
heart leaped at the thought of being 'on the blue waters of the
boundless sea.'"]

Walter felt leaving his childhood's home, with its dear though
mournful recollections, and the native friends who had known him from
his birth.  With simple affection they crowded around to bid him
farewell, and invoke blessings on the missionary's son.  It was not
till he had left the villagers behind that sadness in Walter's breast
gave place to emotions more natural to youth.  Then came a rebound
from the long depressing influence of sorrow and care--a sense of
freedom, a joyousness of hope.  Few but have known the keen enjoyment
of starting on a journey with a lively, amusing companion, and some
have experienced the added zest which a little difficulty or even
peril bestows.  There are those to whom

  "If a path be dangerous known,
  The danger's self is lure alone."

This was eminently the case with the light-hearted Hibernian; and
Walter shared the pleasant excitement.  Then the future, which had
been so dark before, shone out glittering before him like the
snow-capped mountains in front.  Denis talked of the voyage to
England, and Walter's heart leaped at the thought of being, for the
first time in his life, "on the blue waters of the boundless sea."
He had often longed to hear the dash of the ocean waves, and inhale
the briny breezes.  England, too, was in prospect.  The youth
intensely desired to behold the mother-land.  He had often pictured
to himself the white cliffs of Albion, and awoke with a sigh from'
day-dreams of success in a college career.  Now things that, not
twenty-four hours before, had seemed well-nigh impossible of
attainment, appeared to eager hope to have come almost within reach
of his grasp.

The grand scenery through which Walter was passing, the lively
conversation of Denis when he could sufficiently curb his own
patience and that of his horse to accommodate its pace to a walk,
combined to make that morning march one of the bright spots in the
life of young Gurney.  When, on passing the frontier, Denis put spurs
to his steed, and waving his right arm, shouted "Afghanistan at
last!" his companion caught the infection of his exultation, and
nothing for the time seemed more enjoyable than this wild foray into
a dangerous land.  A noonday halt was needed, both on account of the
heat and the weariness of men and beasts.  Denis selected a charming
spot under the shadow of a high rock for the travellers' bivouac.  A
sparkling streamlet, dancing over pebbles, supplied the means of both
bathing and relieving thirst.  The tired mules were unloaded, saddles
and bridles were removed from horse and pony; the animals were
tethered and allowed to crop the herbage around them, after their
thirst had been slaked.

One of the trunks was opened, and gave ample proof of Denis's skill
in providing for travelling comfort.  There was a store of small tin
canisters containing a variety of articles of food, some of them
unknown even by name to the missionary's son.  Truffles, turtles,
oysters, anchovies, potted game, tongues, and pickles, gave a choice
of delicacies to Walter, only perplexing by its abundance.  He
quickly prepared a meal, while Denis, stretched on the ground, amused
himself by writing notes of his journey, or refreshed himself with a
cigar.

"I say, who are these advancing?" he playfully cried, as a party of
Afghan women carrying baskets of fruit appeared descending the road;
"not very formidable opponents, I guess, nor carrying very terrible
weapons.  Walter, are you prepared for a _charge_!"

The women stopped to stare at the Feringhee strangers.  Denis hardly
needed an interpreter; he held up a bag and jingled rupees, then
signed to the women to put down their baskets, and pointed
significantly towards his own mouth.

"I'm getting on with the language bravely!" Denis gaily cried.
"Walter, these women understand my questions without my speaking a
word."

The baskets were quickly emptied of the fruit for which Kabul is
famous.  Denis, notwithstanding his companion's remonstrances, paid
for his purchases a price which astonished the Afghans.

"Some great Feringhee lord!" they remarked to each other.

The dinner was by this time ready.  "Let's set to!" cried Denis,
whose appetite was keen.

Again recurred the difficulty which, trifling as it may appear, is
one that so often meets the Christian on his first mingling with the
world, that to sensitive minds it becomes a real cross.  Walter had
always been accustomed to return thanks before meals from the time
when his mother had first put his little hands together, and he had
lisped after her the words which his lips could hardly frame.  So
strong had the habit become, that before dinner on the previous
evening Walter had said grace as a matter of course at his own board,
without even thinking whether his guest could object.  He knew Denis
better now; he had met the supercilious glance which had been to him
like a sting.  Was there any need to obtrude his religion on one who
could not understand it?  Was not faith a private matter between a
man and his God?  So whispered the ever-ready Tempter.  But a few
Scripture words recurred to the mind of the youth--_Let your light
shine before men_; and with an effort which cost Walter more than it
would have done to face a real danger, in a low, but audible voice he
said, "Thanks to God for all His mercies bestowed through Christ our
Lord."

"He who prepares the meal considers, I suppose, that he should finish
off by saying the grace," observed Denis lightly.  "As for me, I
never pretend to be one of your saints."

It is remarkable how many men seem to plume themselves on making no
profession of religion, as if hypocrisy were the only vice to be
shunned.  We do not admire a beggar for parading his rags, and
declaring that he does not profess to be rich; and who is so
destitute as he who has no portion in the world to come!  We do not
think the debt of gratitude to a bountiful father repaid by his son's
openly declaring that he neither loves nor honours his parent!
Surely those who with self-complacency avow that they make no
profession of religion, and never pretend to be saints, may be
reckoned amongst such as "glory in their shame."

After a long halt, partly passed in sleep, the march was resumed.
Progress was necessarily slow, as the mules could not travel fast,
and it was desirable that the party should keep together.  The pass
was wild and desolate; little appeared to denote that travellers ever
passed that way, save here and there the skeleton of bullock or mule.
As the shadows of evening fell, the travellers noticed that Hanif
seemed to be more on the _qui vive_.  The eyes of Denis and Walter
naturally followed the direction of the Afghan's, as he glanced
upwards towards the high cliffs which on either hand bordered the way.

"I say, Walter, I'm sure that I caught sight of two or three heads up
yonder--not those of deer!" said Denis, bending from his saddle.
"Don't you see something--just above the bush yonder?"

"I see," replied Walter.  "Don't you know that it is the nature of
vultures to swoop down on their prey?"  As he spoke about a score of
the powerful birds, napping their huge wings, rose from the carcase
of some animal on which they had been gorging, disturbed by the
travellers' approach.

"I have two double-barrelled guns and a brace of revolvers; I could
give account of fourteen Afghans," said Denis.  "I'll adorn my belt
with the pistols, and a gun would be better in my hand than on the
back of the mule.  You look to the priming of yours.  We're no dead
sheep for the vultures to prey on."

Perhaps on account of the precautions taken, or the fact that the
wild tribes of the mountain were at the time too much engaged in
their internecine quarrels, to trouble armed travellers, the place
for the night-halt was reached without any interruption, though not
without several alarms.  All the party were tired, with the
exception, perhaps, of Denis, who had ridden when others had walked.
A fire was kindled by Hanif; another, at a short distance, by the
muleteers, who were soon engaged in cooking.  Walter, on whom all
travelling arrangements devolved, lighted a lamp, and looked after
the horse and pony.  None of the beasts were allowed to stray away
from the little encampment.  Grain for the horse had been brought
with them by the travellers.

"We'll make Hanif our watchman to-night," said Denis, glancing
towards the spot where he and the muleteers, smoking hookahs by their
own little fire, formed a picturesque group.

"Never trust an Afghan," replied Walter.  "You and I must play
sentinel by turns."

"All right," said Denis, taking out his costly gold watch.  "From ten
to four, that will be six hours between us.  I never care to sit up
late when there's no dancing or fun to keep me alive, so you'll take
the first turn--and mind you awake me at one."

Walter, who had walked during the greater part of the day, was
exceedingly weary when he began his night-watch, and, long ere it was
ended, found it almost impossible to keep his eyes open.  He fed the
fire, stick by stick, with the wood which he had made the muleteers
collect.  But it had not been easy to find much fuel, and before
midnight no light was left but that of the small hurricane-lamp
below, and the brilliant stars above.  Walter thought of the pillar
of glory over the camp of Israel, under whose calm radiance the
multitudes had slept in calm security.  That pillar was but the
visible emblem of the power which was watching above him now.  In
present, as in olden times, _He that keepeth Israel doth not slumber
or sleep_.  With the thought came calm and restful assurance.  Walter
spent much of his time of watch in silent prayer.

At length the hand of the old watch which Mr. Gurney the missionary
had left to his son, pointed to one.  Walter went to the spot where
lay the tall form of Denis, wrapped in a large luxurious cloak lined
with costly fur.  The youth stooped down, and tried to rouse the
sleeper, first by his voice, then by his hand.

"It is one o'clock; rise, it is your turn now!" said Walter.

The only sound heard in reply was the heavy breathing of the sleeper.

"Come, come, I can't keep awake longer," said Walter, shaking the
Irishman by the shoulder.

"Just leave me in peace, will you?" was the growled-out expostulation
of the drowsy Denis.

"I am too sleepy to play sentinel any longer," said Walter.

"Another hour--just another hour; you roused me from such a delicious
dream!" said Denis, turning on his side.

"He rode all day while I trudged on foot," thought Walter, as he
resumed his weary watch; "but as I am maintained by his bounty, I
suppose that I must be content to take the lion's--or rather the
mule's share of the burden."

Again and again the youth caught himself nodding.  Never, it seemed
to him, had watch-hands moved so slowly.  The instant that the point
of two was reached, Walter was again at the side of Denis.




CHAPTER V.

A ROUGH WAY.

"Hold off, or I'll blow your brains out!" exclaimed Denis, suddenly
starting up to a sitting position, and looking wildly around him.
"Oh, Walter, is it only you?  I dreamed that I had half-a-dozen
Afghans upon me!--why, what is that horrible noise?"

"Only the jackals," said Walter drowsily, coiling himself up in his
rug.

"Dismal noise--worse than the screeching of owls!  One would think
that some venerable grandfather jackal had departed this life, and
that all his descendants had collected together to howl at his wake."

Walter made no observation; he was already asleep.

He was roused at daybreak to prepare for the morning's journey.  The
Europeans did not find it easy to start.  The muleteers were
unwilling to go forwards, and demanded _bakhshish_,* and leave to
return.  They refused to reload the mules, though Denis used very
strong Hibernian language, which Walter did not care to translate.
The fiery young Irishman then used the argument of the stick, which
was for the time more effectual.


* A present.


The mules were laden at last; but scarcely had the party started
before one of the beasts of burden was found to be lame.  The
slowness of progress had sorely tried the philosophy of Denis on the
previous day; he now became fiercely impatient at having to curb in
his steed to suit a lame mule's halting pace.

"I'd bet anything that sneaking fellow had something to do with the
beast's lameness!" he exclaimed.  "I'll give him another taste of my
cane."

"Mr. Denis--Dermot! nothing is gained, everything hazarded by making
enemies of these men!" cried Walter.  "That poor creature cannot limp
on with its burden; we shall have to leave something behind."

"Put the boxes on your pony," suggested Denis; "your gun, rug, and
other light chattels we'll heap on the top of the other mule's
burden, and then turn this wretched brute adrift."

"That arrangement will never do," said Walter, who had a good deal
more common sense than his older companion.  "My pony could not carry
a mule's burden, and the other animal is overladen already.  It is
absolutely needful to leave something behind.  We must part with the
least important part of the luggage."

Dermot Denis was reluctant to part with anything.  His weapons, of
course, must be kept; his ammunition and provision for man and horse
by the way, his cooking-vessels and cash--all were necessaries not to
be left behind.  But his choice cigars, his yellow-backed novels,
crockery, glass, and plate, his looking-glass, dressing-case, brandy
and champagne,--Denis made a fight for each article, was pathetic
over his _eau-de-cologne_, and grudged his box of fine soap.  A great
deal of time was consumed in opening, unpacking, arranging,
rearranging, and trying to force down lids on overflowing trunks that
obstinately refused to be shut.  It was long before the luggage was
so readjusted, that one mule, with some help from the pony, could
carry the needful part of what had been heavy burdens for two.  More
than one trunk had to be left behind, and a quantity of most
heterogeneous articles strewed the ground--objects of great interest
to curious spectators.

For, by twos and threes, a little crowd of most inquisitive Afghans
had arrived on the spot.  Bejewelled women appeared who had been
carrying burdens--one, in addition, with a child seated on her hip,
and another led by the hand.  Most picturesque men, swathed in
striped blankets, with long black hair hanging wildly over Jewish
features, each with a gun in his hand, or a formidable knife stuck in
the scarf which he wore as a belt.  All looked as if they had never
been washed in their lives, but would have made fine subjects for an
artist.  The articles on the ground were freely handled; an
embroidered smoking-cap found its place on the head of a little
urchin who had no clothing besides; the silver-topped bottles of the
dressing-case were speedily appropriated, and vanished somewhere
under the blankets.  Denis was indignant at seeing his property
disappearing under the very eyes of its owner.

"Walter, I say, drive these harpies away!" he exclaimed in an angry
tone.

"We could not do so without using our weapons," replied Walter; "and
were blood once shed, our lives would not be worth a day's purchase.
In Afghanistan revenge is reckoned as a virtue."

"The Sahib had much better return," said one of the muleteers, who
had been from the first most reluctant to advance.

"The Sahib is a great hero,--the Sahib never retreats," observed
Hanif the Pathan, with a grin.

"Don't trust that man--he's an Afghan; he would urge you to go on,"
said Walter, as Denis looked to him for an explanation of words
which, he could not understand.

"I need no urging--I'm resolved to go on; do you think me a weak girl
to want to go back now?  No, not if I had to go alone."

The Afghans not only used their eyes and their fingers, but they
poured forth a volley of questions.  "Who were the travellers? whence
had they come? whither were they going?  Were they merchants? were
their camels behind them? why did they go without an escort of armed
men?"  Such, and many more, were the interrogations made on all
sides.  Walter had not time to translate half to his comrade.

"Tell them I'm a Feringhee nobleman," cried Denis, "a great friend of
their Khan; that he expects me, that I bring him rich presents; that
he'll hang any man, woman, or child that dares to lay a finger on my
goods!"--he snatched his umbrella from the hand of a boy, and sent
him spinning and howling.  "Tell them that I've lots of powder and
shot, and could bring down a sparrow half-a-mile off, to say nothing
of a thief of an Afghan!"

Walter did not think it necessary to give a literal translation of
the words of his angry companion; what he did say could hardly be
heard amidst the Babel of voices, for Hanif and the muleteers were
all taking on themselves to answer the questions, which they did, in
true Oriental style, with wildest exaggerations.

Some of the tin cases of luxuries were on the ground, glittering in
the sun.  An Afghan seized on one, perhaps in hopes that the metal
was silver, wrenched it open, then flung it from him with an
exclamation of disgust, and a curse.

"Dogs of _Kafirs_! (unbelievers); they eat the unclean beast!" he
cried, surveying the Europeans with a look of intense hatred.

"If we are to proceed, we had better go at once," said Walter to
Denis.  The Irishman's quick temper was as a lighted cigar, and
Gurney saw that those around him were as gunpowder ready for
explosion.

"I'm ready to go!" cried Denis fiercely; "but I should like to kick
those fellows all round first."

"It is well that they do not understand you," observed Walter Gurney.

Denis mounted his horse, which had attracted many admiring and
covetous looks from the Afghans.  He shouldered his gun with a very
determined expression, and glanced down significantly at the pistols
stuck in his belt.

The party then moved on, the unladed mule with difficulty managing to
keep up with the rest.  For at least a mile the travellers were
accompanied by a most unwelcome escort of Afghans; more would have
come but for the temptation afforded by the loot which the strangers
had left behind.  Denis had insisted on Hanif's carrying for him his
valuable fur-lined cloak.  At the point where the Europeans at last
parted company with the Afghans, Denis looked round for Hanif, but
neither the guide nor the cloak were anywhere to be seen!

"The villain has robbed me!" Denis exclaimed.

"One could hardly have expected anything else," thought Walter.
Indeed it was rather a matter of surprise to young Gurney that the
remainder of the day passed without any attempt at attack.  The road
had grown steeper, the cliffs higher; it was at least impossible here
to miss the way, as there was no visible opening on either side.
Walter felt as if walking, with his eyes open, into a trap; but even
if retreat were possible, he would not for an instant entertain the
thought of deserting his friend.  The march took longer than that of
the previous day, but much less ground had been passed over.  Before
sunset men and beasts were thoroughly tired out (always excepting
Denis and his high-mettled steed), notwithstanding the mid-day rest.

Again the party bivouacked, and Walter prepared the meal, which was
eaten almost in silence.  The mishaps of the day had greatly damped
the high spirits of Denis.

"I don't care to lie on the bare earth," he said, "with nothing to
keep off the night dews.  Just lend me your rug."

Walter complied at once with the request, and parted with the only
warm wrap in his possession.

The day had been a trying one to the missionary's son; but he had
more steel in his composition than had his more excitable friend;
Walter was less easily elated than Denis, was less impetuous in
action, but had greater power to endure.

Yet Walter felt the need of a brief period of perfect solitude to
compose his troubled mind, and hold communion for a-while with the
invisible world.  No trace of an Afghan was in sight.  The rich red
glow of the setting sun was bathing cliff and stream, and lighting up
with beauty a copse to the right, a little oasis of green in the wild
and sterile mountain landscape.  This copse formed a tempting place
of retreat; Walter would be within call of his travelling companion,
yet be completely screened from observation.  He made his way over
some stones and tangled brushwood to the spot, buried himself in the
copse, and then, in a half-reclining posture, gave himself up to
thought.

"How mysterious are the dealings of Providence!  When, led by
gratitude for past kindness, and hope of future independence, I
linked my fortunes to those of the only being on earth who seemed
willing and able to help me, I thought that I was following the
guidance of the heavenly pillar.  Yet into what a desert has it led
me!  It were childish folly to close my eyes to the fact that it is
more than probable that I may never return from this mad expedition;
it is more than possible that my blood may stain an Afghan dagger, my
body feed the mountain eagles.  What then would become of all my
cherished hopes of following in my father's steps with (such was my
vain presumption) a wider field for missionary enterprise than was
given to him upon earth.  I would not, I thought, lead so dull, so
monotonous a life; I would acquire knowledge, distinction, eloquence,
that I might devote every gift to my Master's work, lay every talent
at His feet.  I hoped to become a sharp and polished instrument to be
used for the welfare of men, and I find myself a kind of travelling
servant to a man who cannot sympathise in my views, cannot understand
my aspirations--a man whom I seem to have no power to influence for
good!

"Shall I then doubt the wisdom of Him whose guidance I have sought in
prayer; shall I think myself forgotten by my Master even if He let me
perish here?  No!" and Walter raised his eyes to a light cloud
floating above, flushed with the rosy light of the sun, which was
itself hidden from view by the tall cliff behind which it had set.
"No! though _He slay me, yet will I trust in Him_!  I have seen the
child of fortune stripped of some of the things which he valued;
gradually he and I may have to part with all--perhaps liberty,
possibly life.  But there is that of which no power either of earth
or hell can deprive the Christian; _nor life, nor death, nor things
present, nor things to come, can separate him from the love of Christ
Jesus our Lord.  Let what will come, my best treasure is safe; the
Lord is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever_."




CHAPTER VI.

THE MOUNTAIN CHILD.

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 red _hurta_, 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, but _rich_ ones 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, a _bara 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.  But _love!_ why should I
love Allah?"

"Because He loves you," replied Walter; "I can tell you, for I _know_
it, what your Moullahs never have told you, that _God 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 asking _where_!  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.




CHAPTER VII.

THE STRUGGLE COMES.

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 over _kurtas_ (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.




CHAPTER VIII.

PRISON LIFE.

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."




CHAPTER IX.

THE AFGHAN CHIEF.

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 a _fact_ by 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 changes _have_ been, and _may_ be 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_."




CHAPTER X.

CONSCIENCE AWAKENED.

"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 Indian _bhajan_.  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 to _do 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 little _houri_!"*
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 the _tamasha_.
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 that _God 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 Jews _did_ kill our great Master," said Walter; "I will tell you
that story another time, Sultána."




CHAPTER Xi.

REPENTANCE AND REPARATION.

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.




CHAPTER XII.

THE HOUR OF PERIL.

At daybreak there was an arrival in the Eagle's Nest.  The great gate
was opened earlier than usual to admit a travelling _Moulvie_.*
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
the _Pirs_ whose 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."

"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."




CHAPTER XIII.

A DARING ATTEMPT.

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.




CHAPTER XIV.

SPEAK OR DIE!

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 if _I_ can 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!"




CHAPTER XV.

THE KNOTTED ROPE.

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, _habitually_ directing 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 who _pleased
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 the
_manna_, he would have lost the _water_ which, 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 the _Saviour_, or _self_.  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.




CHAPTER XVI.

AFTER SEVEN YEARS.

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 life
    One 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."

[Illustration: "'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!" 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.




CHAPTER XVII.

A RICH REWARD.

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 finer _physique_," 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 doubt _that_ eagle 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.




CHAPTER XVIII.

NOONTIDE GLARE.

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 the _Times_, 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 of _punkah-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."

"The thing is impracticable," said Sir Cæsar in the tone of one who
lays down the law.  "My term of service being nearly completed, in
two months we shall start for England, and Walter had better come
with us.  You will have your uncle's interest to give you a good
start in life," he continued, addressing himself to young Gurney; "I
advise your entering on a course at the bar.  I should not wonder,"
he added more gaily, "if you ended your career on the woolsack."

As in the interim between sending his letter, and receiving its
reply, Walter never entered again with Flora on a distasteful
subject, the lady almost forgot the whole affair.  She was much
engaged in preparations for a fancy ball, which she could not
persuade the student to attend even by the lure of seeing her in
Afghan costume personate his favourite Sultána.  But often--very
often--even in the midst of hard study, did Walter think, almost
without fear, of what the mail from England might bring.  His reading
up for examination gave him a fair and true excuse for seeing less of
Miss Dashley; but very hard was it to keep almost entirely away,
except on Sundays, especially as the dreaded time of parting was
every day drawing near and more near.

With almost feverish impatience the secretary's reply was opened when
it arrived about a week after Walter had passed his examination with
brilliant success.  The letter, though couched in rather formal
terms, was full of Christian courtesy.  The committee, it said, had
given due consideration to Mr. Gurney's offer to devote himself to
founding a mission in the country of the Afghans.  His high motives,
his devotion and zeal, were highly appreciated.  But after much
thought the committee felt unable to send any agent into so dangerous
a field, beyond the protection of the British flag.  If Mr. Gurney
would volunteer for work in India, his offer would be gladly
entertained.

Walter gave a sigh--was it of disappointment, or of relief?  He could
scarcely have defined his own feelings.  Almost intuitively he bent
his steps towards the dwelling in which Flora resided, but paused at
the entrance to listen to the delicious tones of her voice.  He found
the young lady at the piano.  Flora had just finished her Italian
song, and received her visitor with a smile.

"I thought that you were forgetting us," she said; "I have been
wanting you for a practice."

Silently Walter Gurney placed the letter in Flora's hand, and watched
her face to see what emotions it might call forth.

"The committee show some sense," the lady remarked, returning the
letter.  "I hope that now you will give up for ever your mad idea of
re-visiting the Eagle's Nest."

"But my promise?" murmured Walter Gurney.

"You are not bound by so foolish a promise.  Suppose that I promised
to spend a week in the house of a friend, and on my arrival found all
the building in flames!  Does honour compel me to stay and be burnt?"

"The case is not quite to the point," said Walter.  "I have passed
seven years in the Eagle's Nest, and my danger would not be greater,
but much less than it was at the first.  When I entered it, I had not
amongst the Afghans a single friend, save one poor child; now I have
seven friends, Christian friends, to help--or desert!"

"Oh, I cannot argue on such matters," said Flora, turning over the
leaves of her music-book to find some particular duet.  "But really,
Walter--Mr. Gurney--you should turn your mind from such projects, as
regards Afghanistan or any other place.  The profession of a
missionary is not quite that of--of-----"  She hesitated, not wishing
to give offence.  "I mean, that with prospects like yours, you might
do a great deal better."

These few words gave Walter acute pain; they betrayed such utter want
of sympathy in what regarded the spreading of the Gospel, in the
woman whose favour was to him as the very sunshine of life.

Flora ran her fingers lightly over the keys.  "It is for the bass to
begin," said she.

Walter mechanically sang through the duet; his thoughts were far, far
away.  When the practising was over, he somewhat hastily took his
departure.

Long did young Gurney ponder over the conversation at night, in the
solitude of his chamber, with his Bible open before him.  Had he not,
again and again, given himself, with all his powers, all his talents,
to the service of a crucified Lord, and now was he not suffering the
world gradually to enclose him in a snare, none the less strong
because its meshes were formed of the softest silk?  Whence came his
increasing repugnance to fulfil his promise to Sultána?  Was it not
the impossibility of taking an English bride to the Afghan mountains?
Walter dared scarcely think of Miss Dashley in connection with his
own future; union with Sir Cæsar's daughter seemed almost as utterly
beyond his hopes as if she had been a star; yet--yet--things more
impossible had happened before.  Oh, how delicious were day-dreams!
but were they safe?--were they right?

Walter knelt down and prayed for guidance, that Divine guidance which
is never honestly sought in vain.  He remained long on his knees.
The young man arose with a pale cheek and a heavy heart.  He opened
his desk, and wrote a letter to his bishop, offering himself as a
candidate for orders in the ordination shortly to take place,
previous to entering on honorary missionary work.  Walter enveloped
the letter, and shut it up in his desk.  He then retired to his
couch, but not to sleep; no slumber visited his eyes on that night.




CHAPTER XIX.

DECISION.

The following dawn ushered in Sunday.  Walter was accustomed on that
day to breakfast with Sir Cæsar, and then accompany him and his
daughter to church, a privilege which made him an object of envy to
some young officers and civilians.  Young Gurney did not on this day
break the understood engagement.  Those Sabbath mornings sometimes
gave him an opportunity of speaking a few words on religious subjects
to Flora, or reading sacred poetry, of which they both were fond.
How soon these too happy mornings would become things of the past!

At the accustomed hour Walter mounted the broad flight of steps which
led to the wide verandah, and pushing aside the green _chik_,*
entered the drawing-room, in which were seated Sir Cæsar and his
daughter.  What a contrast that drawing-room presented to Walter's
quarters in the Eagle's Nest!  The Indian mat which covered the floor
was itself partly hidden under rich Cashmere rugs, tiger's skins, and
the thick fur of the bear.  The whiteness of the walls was relieved
by painted arabesque patterns, with here and there a chromograph or
well-selected print in a gilded frame.  The tables were adorned with
fine china, and delicate specimens of Agra's inlaid marble work.  A
profusion of flowers from a dozen vases filled the air with delicious
perfume.  In a most richly-carved ebony cabinet appeared a collection
of elegantly-bound books; albums lay on one of the tables.  It was
the home of luxury; and everything on which the eye rested, from the
grand piano to the small bird of exquisite plumage in its
flower-wreathed cage, told of the presiding taste of a refined and
cultivated woman.  It was a fit perch for a Bird of Paradise.


* A kind of blind, admitting the free circulation of air.


Sir Cæsar, on the easiest of easy chairs, was enjoying the coolness
imparted by the measured, monotonous swing of the _punkah_;* for,
though it was but the end of March, the weather was already
oppressively hot.


* An enormous kind of fan.


"Well, Walter," said Sir Cæsar, without rising for any more formal
greeting, "we're to be off a good deal sooner than I had expected.
I've had a telegram to say that the Warings, who were going by next
week's steamer, are detained by one of the children taking the
measles, so that their cabins are vacant.  It's not a chance to be
lost, though it rather hurries our movements; but it's worth a push
to get out of this heat.  So Flora and I will be off in a week.
Don't look so startled, my good friend.  I mean you to come with us,
and we'll take Italy in our way."

"Oh, yes; it will delight you to see the art-treasures of Venice,
Rome, and Florence," cried Flora.  "Certainly, you must come with us."

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Captain Mills, an
officer invited to breakfast.

A native servant in livery, bright with scarlet and gold, but with
shoeless feet, announced that the meal was on the table; and Flora
led the way into the room, in which was spread a luxurious repast
served by half-a-dozen attendants.

Walter was unusually silent.  The tidings of the sudden departure had
struck like a knell in his heart.  Sir Cæsar talked enough for both;
he was full of his projected Italian tour.

Soon after the conclusion of the lengthened breakfast, the bells
began to chime for Divine service, and in due course of time the
party proceeded to the stately-looking church.  Walter took his
accustomed place behind Flora in the choir.  Was it for the last
time? he thought, with a pang; or might he not avail himself of Sir
Cæsar's offer, as he had now an uncle's home to visit in England?
The young man was dazzled by the brightness of the prospect opening
before him, yet felt--had there been no other reason against his
going--that it was undesirable to travel as a pensioner on Sir
Cæsar's bounty.

It was exceedingly difficult for Walter to keep his attention to the
prayers; he tried to do so, but scarcely succeeded.  But it was very
different when the organ pealed forth the first hymn.  This hymn was
a great favourite with Flora, who poured forth in it her splendid
voice without giving a thought to the meaning of the words.  But the
words were to Walter the very soul of the hymn, merely clothed with a
musical body.

  "Nearer, my God, to Thee,
    Nearer to Thee,
  E'en though it be a cross
    That raiseth me."

Walter could not sing that verse at that moment; he felt that it
would be a mockery to offer that prayer in which his rebellious heart
did not join; it would be an act of hypocrisy, for he saw plainly the
cross before him, and he shrank from taking it up.  To him, at that
crisis in his life, the mountain fort in Afghanistan appeared much as
the burning fiery furnace must have appeared to the three young Jews.
Flora missed the familiar voice behind her, which had hitherto ever
blended so harmoniously with her own.

After leaving the church, Walter declined Sir Cæsar's invitation to
come home with him to tiffin.  He had sometimes shared that meal, but
had never joined in the Sunday drive, or the Sunday dinner-party.
Walter felt that he must be alone; he could never exercise a calm
judgment on such a matter as the important decision before him, under
the fascination of Flora's presence.

"What is the matter with Gurney to-day?" said Sir Cæsar, when Walter
had quitted the party.  "He has been mum as a fish, did not sing, and
looks thoroughly upset."

"He has studied too hard," observed Flora; but her smile betokened
that some other cause for the young man's trouble had occurred to her
mind.

"He feels this weather as I do," cried Sir Cæsar, passing his
handkerchief over his heated brow.

"By-the-by," said Captain Mills, "did you see the paragraph in the
_Weekly Times_ which came by this mail?"

"I have not opened the paper yet," said Sir Cæsar.

"There's a paragraph about a certain Gilbert Gurney, only surviving
son of Augustus Gurney, Esq. of Eaton Square and Claverdon Hall being
killed by a fall in the hunting-field."

"Ha! that must be the son of Walter's uncle!" exclaimed Sir Cæsar;
"then our friend Walter will be, I suppose, next heir to a handsome
estate and at least ten thousand a-year."

"Lucky fellow!" ejaculated the captain; "lucky in everything I take
it.  But I don't suppose that the property is entailed, and Mr.
Gurney of Claverdon Hall may not sympathise with his nephew's
missionary peculiarities."

"Oh, we'll hear no more of that nonsense now," said Sir Cæsar; "the
heir to ten thousand per annum will see matters in quite a new light."

There the conversation on the subject ended.  Flora had not joined in
it, but busied herself with newly arranging some flowers in a vase.
But it was noticed by those who accompanied her in her afternoon ride
that the young lady was in unusually high spirits at the prospect of
her speedy departure for England.

Walter's spirits were as depressed as hers were elevated.  He passed
a second sleepless night, and on the Monday morning was absent from
the morning lecture at the college.

As he sat at his solitary breakfast, a letter was brought in which
bore English post-marks.  It had arrived by the same mail as that
from the secretary of the mission, but a mistake in the address had
for two days delayed its transmission.  The student expected no
letter from England, as his uncle, his only correspondent there, had
written to him but twice in the course of nine years.  But Walter
recognised the handwriting of Augustus Gurney.  His epistle, as
usual, was brief:--

"Dear Walter,--You have probably seen in the papers that I have had
the misfortune to lose my last remaining son, killed by a fall from
his horse.  You are now my nearest relative, and in declining years,
with broken health, I should like to have one beside me.  If you
accept the position of a son, I propose receiving you as my heir.
Come to England at once; I enclose a cheque for travelling expenses."

Walter felt dizzy,--almost as if he had received a stroke of the sun.
Will he sink very low in the reader's estimation when it is owned
that the latter gave him a wild thrill of delight?  It was not that
he coveted a fortune,--it was not merely the prospect of wealth that
made his pulse beat so high.  As a penniless adventurer he could
hardly have aspired to the hand of Flora Dashley; but the heir of the
wealthy Augustus Gurney might, without any presumption, ask her to be
his bride.  Walter sprang from his seat, and with rapid steps paced
up and down the apartment.  Satan tempted him--as he is so ready to
tempt God's people--with arguments drawn from religion itself.  Was
not this letter, coming at so critical a time, an indication of the
leading of Providence?  What a talent to be used for God would be
wealth devoted to the noblest objects!  What visions of schools
opened and alms-houses built, a happy peasantry, a delightful home,
rose before the mental vision of Walter!  He was almost persuaded for
a few moments that his own will was the will of God.  His was nearly
being a case of spiritual sun-stroke indeed.

Walter's intoxicating day-dream was interrupted by the entrance of
Will Green, a gay young college companion.

"Walter, you played truant from the lecture this morning.  I'm glad
that you kept me in countenance for once.  No" (as Walter motioned
for him to take a chair), "I've really no time to sit down.  I've
brought you a present, a dirty old picture from the bazaar, put up
for two annas, and hardly worth them.  But I saw your good father's
name and Santgunge written in the corner, so I thought that it might
be some family relic of yours that I had lighted on by chance.  There
it is," he added, throwing down his purchase on the table; "I can't
stop now, I have an appointment," and the student went off as
suddenly as he had entered.

A family relic, yes!  In that stained, fly-spotted, insect-eaten
piece of paper, Walter recognised the picture which had hung in his
earliest home; it was the print of the Israelites crossing the
desert, the story of which, Walter as a child, had first heard from
the lips of his mother.  As he gazed on it the young man seemed to
hear again the voice of his venerated father uttering these words,
which had been Walter's comfort in one of the most critical points of
his life--"God may lead us into a desert, my boy, but it is a blessed
way if His presence go with us."

A straw may turn a balance; a single sentence change the course of a
life.  Walter was again on his knees, in a wrestling agony of prayer.
He arose comparatively calm, but pale as a corpse.  Walter sat down,
opened his desk, and took out the letter which he had written to the
bishop, but which he had not yet had resolution to send.  He then,
with unsteady hand, wrote another.  It was a grateful one to Sir
Cæsar, thanking him for kindness which could never be either repaid
or forgotten, but bidding him a long farewell.  Walter could give no
reason for not seeking a personal interview; he thought that a father
might guess the cause.  Young Gurney could not trust himself to say
good-by to Flora.  He but added a postscript, with a hand that
trembled with agitation, in which he requested Sir Cæsar to remember
him gratefully to his daughter.

It was almost as painful a task to write to his uncle; Walter was as
one undergoing an operation, who would, while writhing under the
knife, have all over as quickly as might be.  The terrible work was
over--the letters completed, enveloped, and sealed.  Walter summoned
the servant who waited in the verandah, gave him the three epistles,
bade him take two to their respective destinations, and the third to
the post.  When he had done this, the unhappy young man seemed to
have reached the utmost point of endurance.  As the servant departed,
Walter sank back on his chair, and covered his face with his hands.

"Oh, pillar of cloud!--dark, terrible pillar!" he groaned; "thou art
leading me into a waste and howling wilderness, indeed!"

In another hour Walter was being whirled along in a train, he cared
not whither; he had taken his ticket almost at random for a place of
which he scarcely knew the name, and whose recommendation was that it
was so retired that he was not likely to meet there with any one who
knew him.  There, in a dreary _dák-bungalow_* young Gurney lay for
some days in a fever; before he had thoroughly recovered, Sir Cæsar
and his daughter had started for England.


* A kind of inn, provided by Government for the convenience of
travellers.


Walter Gurney had narrowly escaped from one of the chief perils of
his life--that of union with a vain and worldly woman, who would
sooner have drawn him down to her own level than have risen up to
his.  He had all but crossed over the stile into the Bypath Meadow
described by Bunyan, which leads to the territory of Giant Despair;
that he had not done so was the result of faith's upward glance at
the pillar of cloud and fire.




CHAPTER XX.

A POST OF PERIL.

It is now time to return to the little band of Afghan converts left
in the Eagle's Nest.

Whilst Walter had been basking in the dangerous glare of prosperity,
a sharp storm of trial had been sweeping over his native friends.  He
had not been fully aware how all-important had been the support of an
Englishman's influence, talent, and courage, to the newly-baptised
chief, Ali Khan.  It was now as if the principal pillar supporting an
edifice had been taken away, or a vessel in a gale had been reft both
of its main-mast and rudder.  Yet as a building may still stand,
though its strongest prop be removed, and a vessel float on the waves
though main-mast and rudder be lost, so the chief in the Eagle's Nest
for years held his dangerous post.  This was chiefly owing to the
following three causes.

Ali Khan was a brave and--until his baptism--a popular leader.
Though he now discouraged war and forbade plunder, no one could doubt
the courage of a man who had slain a bear single-handed, and who had
brought home more trophies of the chase than did any other hunter in
the clan.  Once finding three of his men, against his express orders,
looting and beating a travelling merchant, Ali Khan had knocked down
the chief offender, expelled him from the tribe, and made the two
others undergo the bastinado.  This vigorous execution of justice had
for a time a very salutary effect on the minds of his turbulent
followers.  The Afghans saw that they had to deal with no child.

And Ali Khan, as the husband of Sultána, commanded a certain amount
of respect.  The young eaglet had from childhood been the darling of
the clan, and now they were proud of her, Christian as she was, as
being, in their eyes, the brightest, bravest, most beautiful woman in
all their land.  Sultána was no _pardah_ prisoner in her zenana; her
light step, the glance of her eye, the tones of her voice were
familiar to all in the fort.  There were many who had received from
her personal kindness not readily to be forgotten.  In everything
relating to the management of his troublesome people, Sultána was to
her husband more than a right hand.

There was a third advantage possessed by the chief.  From the manner
in which Walter Gurney had been received at the English camp, it was
concluded by the Afghans that he must have great influence with the
powerful invaders.  The British troops were sweeping through
Afghanistan, and tidings of their wonderful marches and signal
victories reached the Eagle's Nest.  Even when our warriors vacated
the land, they left their prestige behind.  The Afghans of the fort
had an impression that Walter would return, and should he find his
friend Ali Khan defeated or deposed, would draw on them English
vengeance.  The iron hand of power which had twice reached Kabul
itself, would easily crush a small tribe so near the British
dominions.  Thus, for a considerable time, his own character, his
wife's influence, and the fear of Walter's anger made discontented
Moslems submit to the control of a Christian chief.

But there were no more conversions.  It had been Walter Gurney's
habit, during the latter part of his residence in the Eagle's Nest,
to give daily expositions of Scripture, followed by singing and
prayer; and his parables had been so attractive, his music so fine,
his descriptions so vivid, that many unconverted Afghans had gathered
around to hear him.  Often the nod of assent, or the appreciative
"wah! wah!" had expressed approval--if not of the doctrine, yet of
the illustration employed by the gifted preacher.

It was very different when Ali Khan, keeping his place on the page
with his swarthy finger, read slowly, and with many mistakes, from
the manuscript left for his use by Walter.  His audience comprised
none but the Christians, sometimes only his wife, for her venerable
grandmother was slowly sinking into the grave.  The seed sown by
Walter had in most cases fallen on the beaten highway; as soon as he
had quitted the fort, the evil one carried it away.

Nor were there wanting illustrations of the seed falling on the stony
ground, and springing up only to die.  Mirza, one of the baptised
seven, soon grew weary of isolation from his Moslem companions, and
of bearing their taunts and ill-treatment.  He very easily persuaded
himself that though Christianity might be good for Feringhees, it
would never suit the Afghan.  Mohammed Sahib had been a bold and
successful chief, who had permitted his followers to loot, had
encouraged them to kill, and had promised on easy terms to his
followers paradise and its houris.  The oriental mind is not logical;
Walter's proofs of the truth of Christianity, if ever understood by
Mirza, were forgotten almost as soon as heard.  First the Afghan
absented himself from prayers, then received reproof with sullen
anger; finally he openly joined the party in the fort who scarcely
attempted to conceal their dislike of their Christian chief, and
their resolution to resist innovations.  Mirza's wife, as a matter of
course, followed the lead of her husband, and never, except from
necessity, came near Sultána.

Then came death, still further to lessen the little band of
Christians.  Sultána's aged relative passed from earth.  Her faith
had been as that of a little child, and with the simple trust of a
little child she obeyed the call of her Heavenly Father.  Sultána, as
she gazed on the placid face of the dead, felt that the venerable
woman had indeed been taken from the evil to come.  She was sheltered
in the grave--or rather in the land of the blessed--from the trials
and perils which every day were coming on thicker and faster.

The mind of Ali Khan was sorely troubled by the spreading spirit of
disaffection; his patience sometimes gave way under the daily
provocations to which he was now exposed.  His faith might have
failed altogether, had it not been sustained by the firmer piety of
his young wife.

"I am weary of my life!" exclaimed the chief one day, as he entered
the upper apartment or zenana, where Sultána was plying her wheel.

"Mirza is a false traitor to me as well as to his faith; he is trying
to undermine my power in my own fort.  Half of the men of my tribe
would not care were I to share the fate of the yellow-haired
stranger.  There were curses muttered to-day which I did not choose
to seem to hear, as a Christian must not for a personal affront knock
down a fellow with the butt end of a gun, or shoot him through the
head.  The fellows know that, and they take their advantage.  Our
Feringhee friend should never have come, or never have left us!"

"He will come again," said Sultána; "he promised to return to his
Afghan children, and he never will break his word."

"He hath sent us no token, and years have gone by," said the chief,
gloomily, seating himself on the skin of a cheetah, spread on the
bare floor.  It was too true that neither Walter's letters nor gifts
had reached their destination; the latter had been appropriated by
their bearers, or the unscrupulous Afghans of the fort; the former,
which Sultána would have prized more highly, had been destroyed or
flung away.

"My men," continued the chief, "accustomed to a wild life of plunder,
cannot or will not take to the means of earning their livelihood
which the Feringhee friend proposed.  They say that they are not
Persians to weave carpets, nor Kashmiris to embroider shawls.  They
are accustomed not to make but to take; not to exchange goods but to
seize them."

"My lord has many troubles," said Sultána; "but there is One who can
and will bear him through all.  We will not yield, nor fear, nor
complain."

"I feel the difficulty myself," said the chief, pursuing the train of
his own thoughts.  "In old times when we needed aught, we belted on
scimitars and loaded our guns, and made a sudden foray.  We came back
fewer perhaps in numbers, but anyhow laden with spoil.  Now--how am I
to provide for your needs and my own?  I have not a silver piece
left."

"My lord will never shrink from poverty endured for Christ's sake,"
said Sultána.

"I do not shrink," said the chief; "I know that it is better to
starve as a Christian than feast as a Moslem."

"My lord will not starve," said Sultána; "have we not heard that God
feeds the ravens?"  She had stopped her wheel in order to converse,
and now drew the anklets over her slender bare feet, took the jewels
from her ears, and the ornaments from her beautiful hair.  Silently
she placed them beside her husband.

"How could I rob you of your jewels!" he exclaimed, knowing how
precious to the women of the East are such personal adornments.

"I need them not," said the daughter of a robber chief--how changed
from what she had been in her childhood!  "Let me not lay up
treasures on earth; mine is the pearl of great price."

And a gift better than gems was to reward the young Afghan wife.  In
the course of that month a little bud of beauty bloomed beside the
parent rose.  Sultána clasped in her arms a lovely boy, and in
grateful adoration she and her husband devoted him at once to the
Lord.

Few earthly joys come without some drawbacks.  It caused great
dissatisfaction in the fort that the birth of the chief's first-born
son was not celebrated by the gluttonous revels and superstitious
orgies which had never before been omitted in the Eagle's Nest on
such a joyful occasion.  Sheep indeed had been killed, and a banquet
provided; but vice and profanity had been excluded, and to the
special indignation of the old women, not a single charm against the
evil eye had been tied around the neck of the babe!

Ali Khan and Sultána had long been making a brave struggle to swim
against the tide of dissatisfaction, but now it appeared likely to
sweep them away in its current.  Mustapha was--and had been for
months--plotting against his chief.  The traitor tried, and succeeded
but too well, in stirring up the smouldering embers of discontent
into a flame.  He contrived to have another key made for the large
outer gate, so that it could be opened without the knowledge of Ali
Khan, who, like his predecessor, always kept the key at night.  Then
Mustapha arranged a meeting of Afghans in a retired spot outside the
fort, and to this meeting all the men except Mir Ghazan and Ali Khan
himself were invited.

The gathering took place by moonlight,--by knots of twos and threes
the mountaineers sought the appointed place.  When Mustapha judged
that the number was complete, springing on a piece of rock which
raised him a little above his audience, with passionate gestures he
addressed the listening throng of the fierce, long-haired Afghans.

"How long, O Pathans! will you submit to the rule of a vile renegade,
who has left his faith to become the disciple of a Feringhee Kafir,
who has deceived, and now deserted him!  Are you, who soared like
mountain eagles, ye who as eagles swooped down on your prey, to
become as timorous doves?  Is the bear who went crashing through the
woods in his freedom, defying and destroying whoever opposed him, to
be led by a silken thread?  Ye are not men, ye are women, if ye
longer own Ali Khan as your chief, seeing that he has disgraced his
name, deserted his faith, and cast dirt on the graves of our fathers!"

"Down with him! down with him! death to the infidel!" cried some of
the fiercer of the Afghans, unsheathing their knives.

The disaffection was not universal; Ali Khan had still his admirers
and Sultána her friends even in that excited throng; but, as is
usually the case, the louder voices and the more fiery spirits
carried the day.

"Mustapha is our chief!  Down with Ali Khan--hurl him from the rock!"
shouted the renegade Mirza; and others took up the cry, "Mustapha!
Mustapha! the true believer!  Mustapha is the chief of our clan!"




CHAPTER XXI.

THE ATTACK.

"Awake, awake, Ali Khan! chief! if you would not be slain where you
lie!" was the loud summons which startled the Afghan from his repose.

"It is the voice of Mir Ghazan!" exclaimed Ali, springing from his
couch, and seizing his scimitar.

"If the chief linger, Mustapha and his rebels will be upon him!  No
time for delay!" cried Mir Ghazan, as Ali Khan drew back the heavy
curtain which served in place of a door.

"What mean ye?" asked the Afghan chief.  "Mustapha left the fort at
noon and cannot return at night, for the key of the gate is with me."

"I know not how that may be," said Mir Ghazan, with impatience; "I
found the gate open not an hour ago, for there had been a stirring in
the courtyard, and I knew that some mischief was brewing.  I went
forth, following two figures that moved before me; they stopped just
below the Vulture's Crag.  I was present, unseen, at a meeting where,
had they caught a glimpse of me, I had been silenced with a dagger.
Mustapha is rousing the tribe against us Christians.  I outstripped
the rebels to give you warning, but even at this moment the
bloodthirsty throng must be close at the gate.  Hark! hear you not
their wild yells!"

Sultána, pale, but perfectly calm, with Rahim, her ten-days' old babe
in her arms, now stood by the side of her husband.  "We have no means
of escape," she said; "if we go to the gate we but meet them.  Let us
hasten to the Feringhee's room" (it still commonly went by that
name); "it has a strong door and a lock.  We can at least hold out
there for some hours--till the Lord, in His mercy, send us succour."

There was no time for more words.  Mir Ghazan's wife, roused by the
noise, was at the foot of the dark stair which led up to the chief's
apartments.  The small band of Christians with hurried steps made
their way into the court-yard, open to the silver moonlight, and then
sped up the ladder staircase, Ali Khan himself being the last to
mount it.  Scarcely had he entered the Feringhee's room when the
court-yard was full of Pathans, some shouting the Moslems' hulma*
some, "Down with the renegade _Karanis_!  Mustapha!  Mustapha! he is
our chief!"


* "There is but one God, and Mohammed is his prophet."


The door was shut, the key turned in the lock.  Thus a breathing
space of time was secured to the fugitives, standing in semi-darkness
within their narrow place of retreat.

"Let us pray," said Sultána, and every knee was bent in silent prayer.

There was a rush up the ladder, an angry knocking and thumping at the
door; but the timber of which it was made was strong, and resisted
the efforts of Ali Khan's assailants.

"Let alone!" cried a voice from without, loud enough to be heard
above the clamour.  "We have good allies within yon room.  Unless the
eagles bring the Kafirs food, and the hot winds water, hunger and
thirst will soon force them to open the door!"

The words had their effect.  The assault was for the time reduced to
a blockade.  No one was to be suffered to come out of the prison
which the Christians had made their fortress.  Pent up in their
narrow quarters, exposed to hunger, thirst, and heat (for the month
was May), the Kafirs should be driven at last to surrender and
apostatise--or perish.  In the meantime their enemies should feast;
there should be a banquet to celebrate the elevation of Mustapha to
the leadership of the tribe, and his fallen rival should hear the
festal mirth.

Wild noisy revelry took place in the court-yard, and lasted till long
after dawn.  Notwithstanding the affected fervour of their religious
zeal, some of the Afghans unscrupulously broke the law of their
Prophet by copious libations of the strictly forbidden drink.  Bang,
a spirituous liquor, was freely circulated round, and its effects
were shown in louder shouting, coarser jests, and more savage
threats.  It was as if demons were holding their revels below.

As day advanced the noises gradually ceased; no banquet can last for
ever; most of the revellers were stretched in drunken slumber.  But
Mustapha had effectually provided against the escape of his victims
by placing an armed guard of the more sober of his men to watch in
turns in front of the ladder.  The opening of the door above would be
a signal for instant attack, or the fugitives would be shot down, one
by one, as they emerged from their prison.

It was a time when the faith of the Christians in that upper room was
tried in a very hot furnace.  The courage of Fatima, Mir Ghazan's
wife, was not equal to the trial.  The poor woman beat her breast,
and tore her hair, and declared that Allah had forsaken them, and
given them up to their foes.

"Allah never forsakes His children," said Sultána.  "As soon, O
Fatima, could I desert this babe who is dearer to me than my
life's-blood.  Dost thou not remember what our Feringhee friend told
us of the pillar of cloud and fire which guided Beni-Israel?  When
the fierce enemy pursued with his horses and chariots, an enemy
thirsting for blood, did not that pillar stand as a wall of defence
between the weak and the strong, the faithful and their pursuers?
The God of Israel is with us now, and will either save or strengthen
us to endure!"

Not once did the faith or the courage of the young Afghan fail
through all that terrible day.  When Sultána had owned her Saviour at
baptism she had counted the cost, she had known that she was entering
on a path which might lead to martyrdom, following in the track of
Him who had endured it in its most terrible form.  Sultána now
cheered and encouraged her companions, and hushed her little infant
to rest with hymns of praise.

The hours passed on--how terribly slowly!  The heat increased, every
throat was parched with thirst.  Fatima crouched in one corner,
moaning and weeping.  Mir Ghazan found some repose in sleep.  Ali
Khan stood with arms folded, stern and still.  He thought of what men
in like desperate circumstances have done--how the husband has slain
the wife of his bosom, and then rushed forth to die.  But such deeds
are not for Christians; their consciences are bound, their hands are
tied--they must wait till Allah send death to release them.  Sultána
saw her husband's stern eyes turned towards the opening through which
the wretched Denis had passed; she read the thought which flashed
through Ali Khan's mind at that moment, before it found expression in
words.

"On one side the precipice, on the other the foe; there the short
agony--the fall--here lingering death by thirst and starvation.  Such
is the choice now left us, and yet--we trusted in God!"

"We trust yet and will trust!" cried Sultána, "did not the friend
teach us the word, _Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!_"

"Mother of Rahim!"* said Ali Khan; "thy faith is stronger than mine.
It is well that we have hope in heaven, on earth there is nought but
despair."


* The Oriental style of addressing a woman by the name of her
child--not her own.


"Nay, not despair, my lord," said the young Eagle, her eye still
bright though her wan cheek and parched lip told of physical
suffering; "a wild fit of madness has seized the tribe.  Mustapha has
cast over them an evil spell; but the madness may pass away and the
spell be broken.  Let my lord be assured that some true hearts are
with him still.  Yar Mohammed will never forget who saved his life
when the bear was clawing his face; nor Sadik Khan who nursed him, as
a brother might, in his sickness.  Hossein Ghazi--I could answer for
his truth; he served my father and my father's father--he never will
forsake their daughter.  Let us but gain a little time till the first
frenzy has spent its force, and then appeal to the honour and loyalty
of our gallant Pathans.  Wot not, my lord, how our friend would sway
our fierce warriors by his powerful words, till eyes that never
before were wet, eyes wont to look on bloodshed unmoved, were dim
with strange tears, and proud spirits were bowed like trees when the
wind sweeps past?"

"The Feringhee spake with power," said the chief; "his words were
like the bullet from a gun aimed with skill, and sent with force--the
bullet that strikes, and down falls the deer!  _My_ words are like
the bullet thrown by an unskilled hand--it either falls short of the
quarry, or if it reach it would not ruffle a hair.  I never knew how
to use any argument but one--the strength of my own right hand, and
of that my new faith deprives me.  Ha! what is that sound! they are
at us again!" he exclaimed.

Mustapha perhaps thought, like Sultána, that the wild rage of the men
whom he had seduced from their allegiance to their brave chief, might
be like some mountain torrent, though furious quickly spent.  He
would leave them small space to consider.  About two hours before
sunset, when the greater number of his followers had awoke from their
drunken slumber, Mustapha again led an assault up the ladder.  He now
applied other means to burst open the door.  A strong ruffian, by his
orders, wielding a heavy hatchet, dealt blow after blow on the wood.
Every thud was echoed by a faint shriek from Mir Ghazan's terrified
wife.

Ha! a portion of the wood gives way, a splinter flies into the room,
a breach is made--not large, but wide enough to admit the muzzle of
Mustapha's pistol, and long enough to let him take aim.

"I have him now!  Dog of a renegade, die!" exclaimed Mustapha, aiming
the pistol at the head of Ali Khan, who was not two yards' distant.

[Illustration: "'I have him now!  Dog of a renegade, die!' exclaimed
Mustapha, aiming the pistol at the head of Ali Khan."]

Sultána sprang forward, and interposed her own form between the
deadly weapon and her husband.  "Fire!" she cried, "but your bullet
will only reach the heart of a woman!"

"Give up Ali Khan! we thirst for no blood but his!" cried the savage
Mustapha.

Ali Khan himself unlocked and flung open the door.  "Here is your
chief!" he exclaimed, manfully facing his foes.

Ali's sudden appearance somewhat startled Mustapha, but far more was
he startled by a loud voice of command which suddenly rang through
the court-yard behind him--

"A pistol levelled at your chief! can ye behold it, Pathans, and not
strike down the villain!  Seize him--seize the false traitor!"

The faithful Mir Ghazan dashed forward, and seized Mustapha by the
throat.  There was a brief desperate struggle between the two men, in
which the pistol went off.  Its contents were lodged in the brain of
Mustapha.

"Shot by his own pistol--the judgment of God!" exclaimed Walter, for
it was he who had given the order, as the bleeding corpse of Mustapha
fell heavily from the height to the ground.

"The judgment of God!" repeated many voices with subdued awe, as if
he who spake the words was a prophet.  Walter stood amongst the wild
mountaineers as one in command.

"What is all this?" he said to the chief, who, springing down the
steps, was now warmly embracing his deliverer.  "What has caused this
mad tumult?"

"The tribe are weary of a chief who is a Christian," was Ali Khan's
brief reply.

"The tribe!" repeated Walter.  "Not half of them are present.  And do
men without sense of religion," he continued, looking sternly around,
"men who break the laws of him whom they call their Prophet"--(he
pointed indignantly to the traces of the drunken revel)--"do such
pretend to zeal for their faith!"  The Moslems cowered beneath the
Englishman's glance and scathing words.  "We will know what is indeed
the will of the tribe.  Mir Ghazan, Hossein Ghazi, summon every man
to meet us here to-morrow at sunrise; let none be absent.  And in the
meantime, remove the corpse of that traitor."

"We'll throw it to the jackals," exclaimed Mir Ghazan.

"No!" cried Ali Khan, "give it burial.  Christians avenge not
themselves on their enemies, be they living or dead."

"Ah, Sultána, my brave child!" exclaimed Walter, all the sternness of
his countenance softening to an expression of paternal tenderness as
he beheld the young wife and mother, with her infant in her arms,
descending the blood-stained steps, radiant with unspeakable delight.

"I knew that our friend would return!  I knew that the Lord would
send help!  Glory--glory to His name!" exclaimed Sultána, the tears
which suffering could not bring, now welling from her beautiful eyes.

If anything dashed the joy which the missionary experienced at that
moment, it was a feeling of self-reproach and shame that he had so
hesitatingly, doubtingly, gloomily followed the pillar which had led
him back to the Afghan mountains,--nay, that he had all but given up
following its guidance.  Had his return been delayed for but one day
longer--one hour--nay, five minutes, he would have arrived too late.




CHAPTER XXII.

WHERE THE PILLAR RESTED.

The fort, as has been mentioned, was by no means the dwelling-place
of all the members of Ali Khan's tribe; though, their numbers being
small, in times of danger all would seek refuge within its walls.
There were rude hamlets scattered here and there in the mountains, as
well as some huts clustered in a little valley below.  From every
tenement ere sunrise on the following day come the Pathans in answer
to Walter's summons.  At dawn the court-yard, with its recesses, was
crowded; the mountaineers' manly forms, picturesque attire, and the
various emotions expressed on their swarthy countenances, giving
great interest and animation to the scene.

Ali Khan, with Walter on his right hand, stood on the narrow
landing-place at the top of the ladder-staircase; this served as an
elevated platform from which to address the people.  Sultána, in the
room behind, was an eager listener to all that passed.

"Ali Khan, brave chief, it is for you to speak to your tribe," said
Walter.

"I never could speak in my life," said the Afghan bluntly.  "You know
my heart--you will be as my tongue."

"Nay, a few words from yourself will be needful."

Ali Khan was not the first gallant warrior who has shrunk from the
effort of making a speech; however, after the pause of a few seconds,
with manly frankness thus he spake:--

"Afghan brothers! we have been born amongst you, lived amongst you,
and I had thought to stay amongst you to the end; but if you do not
wish me for your chief, I tell you that I will only rule over free
men, not over unwilling slaves.  The world is wide--so is God's
grace.  We can seek for graves elsewhere.  We will go, carrying with
us our Christian faith, and leaving behind--our forgiveness."

Short was the speech; but it had its effect on the throng, who had
listened with profound attention.  Sultána felt proud of her
husband's eloquence, and looked fondly into the face of her boy,
discovering in his baby features a likeness to his brave father.

"Now it is your turn," said Ali Khan to Walter Gurney, who thus
addressed the listening crowd:--

"Afghans--friends (may I not call you so, for albeit of another race
I am willing to cast in my lot with you all)--you are assembled on an
important occasion, to decide upon who is to be the chief who shall
henceforth be at the head of your tribe.  For more than two years you
have been under the rule of Ali Khan; you know him well, he has been
amongst you from childhood.  Is there any man here who has sustained
wrong at the hands of the chief; is there one who has been oppressed,
or robbed, or tortured?  If there be one who has just cause to
complain of the Christian Ali Khan, let that man now lift up his
hand."

There was no movement in answer to the appeal.

"It then follows," continued Walter, after a pause, "that you own
that Christianity makes a man neither tyrannical nor unjust; it does
not make him unfaithful to his engagements, nor neglectful of the
cries of the poor.  Brothers! ye have listened to the words of your
chief, and what I say now I say as his spokesman.  It is the desire
of Ali Khan that I set two alternatives before you.  If you, as
Moslems, find that you cannot endure the leadership of a Christian,
Ali Khan will make no struggle, shed no blood to maintain his right;
he and his family will quit a land which rejects so brave and true a
son.  I have enough influence to procure honourable employment in
India for my brother and friend."  (Here a dissentient murmur was
heard from the crowd below, but no distinctly audible words.)  "If,
on the other hand, you wish to keep amongst you as leader the best
and bravest man of your tribe, who asks but that toleration for his
religion which he accords to that of others, Ali Khan is willing to
forgive the past, to forget that his Pathans ever wavered in their
loyalty to their chief.  My own connection with the English will
enable us to open up commerce, to procure for you advantages not
possessed by tribes more remote from the frontier.  The two
countries, as you know, are now at peace; the scimitar of war is
sheathed, the Afghan trader is welcomed if he descend into the
plain."  (There was again a murmur, but not this time of
dissatisfaction.)  "If I remain here, I tell you frankly, it will be
as a missionary, a spiritual guide; but Christianity, unlike Islam,
makes no converts by the sword.  No man's freedom of conscience shall
be violated; ye shall listen to my teaching or turn away as ye will.
I come to you, O Afghans! as one who, having found a treasure, seeks
to share it with others; as one who, having slaked his thirst at a
fountain, would call his thirsty, weary brethren to come and drink
also.  And now, Afghans, I put to you the question, on your answer to
which will depend whether we remain amongst you, or quit these
Afghanistan mountains--perhaps for ever.  Are ye willing to retain
and to obey Ali Khan as your chief?"

Out flashed many a bright scimitar, weapons were waved on high; if
there were any dissentient voices they were drowned in the almost
universal shout of "Long live Ali Khan!  Prosperity to our brave
chief!  We will stand by him to the death!"

While Ali Khan responded to the tumultuous acclamations of his
followers, Walter turned and entered the room in which he had left
Sultána.

"Oh, God-sent friend!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "you will
remain with us--teach us--guide us--show us the way to heaven!"

"If the Lord will," replied Walter Gurney, "I am ready to live and to
die in the Eagle's Nest."

----------

The world would deem the resolution that of a mad enthusiast, carried
away by the excitement of the moment.  What! should one before whom
was opening a brilliant career, with wealth, fame, friendship, love
to beckon him on, give up all for what that world would deem a mere
philanthropical dream!  Could the brilliant genius find no better
employment for his talents than teaching ignorant savages, who might
at the last reward his labours by taking his life?  Were all the
comforts, the luxuries of refined civilisation, to be exchanged for
exile amongst the mountains, with hardships to be endured, and
perhaps a martyr's obscure grave to be filled at the end!  "Strange
folly!" the world would exclaim, "to give up all that man holds
precious, with nothing to weigh in the balance against it!"

_Nothing_!  Oh, how different the calculations of angels!  In the
balances of heaven what would the crown of a Cæsar weigh against one
immortal soul?  Did not the Son of God think it worth while to leave
heaven itself to win it?  Let me quote the words of the missionary
Duff--more powerful than any that I can pen: "This great and mighty
Being did for our sakes consent to veil His glory and appear upon
earth as a Man of Sorrows, whose visage was so marred,--more than any
man's,--and His form more than the sons of men.  Oh! is not this
love, self-sacrificing love, condescension without a parallel and
without a name!  God manifest in the flesh!  God manifest for the
redemption of a rebel race!  Oh! is not this the wonder of the world;
is not this the astonishment of a universe!"  Referring to the
angels, the missionary continues: "Tell me, oh, tell me, if in their
cloudless vision it would seem aught so marvellous, so passing
strange, did they behold the greatest and mightiest of a guilty race,
redeemed themselves at so vast a price, ... issue forth in the
footsteps of the Divine Redeemer into the waste and howling
wilderness of sin, to seek and to save them that are lost!"

One more word to the reader ere we part.  It may be not to you, O my
brother or sister, that the call is given to leave your country to
carry the message of salvation to the heathen; for you the pillar of
cloud and fire may rest over some Elam; God may bid you watch over an
aged parent, make a home happy, bring up children for Him.  Your work
may be in Scotch or English parish; perhaps in the crowded city,
perhaps in the peaceful village.  But is your eye fixed on that
pillar, the emblem of the will of your Heavenly King?  Is the calm
peaceful resolution of your heart, "_Wherever_ Thou wilt, _however_
Thou wilt, O my adorable Lord! but guide me, and I will follow!"
Then blessed is your path, whether in wilderness or green pastures,
whether through roaring billows or beside the still waters!
Dispensing blessings to the poor around, teaching the ignorant,
comforting the afflicted, fighting against the power of Satan both
within and without, you may be as truly serving the Lord, as truly
pressing forward to the prize, as if planting the banner of the Cross
on the height of some

EAGLE'S NEST.



FINIS









*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74306 ***