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."