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.