Читать книгу Barclay of the Guides - Herbert Strang - Страница 15

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The capture of Minghal's village gave such an accession of strength to Rahmut Khan that he was soon emboldened to plan an expedition of greater importance than any he had undertaken before. He heard that the chief of a small hill village had refused to pay the Government revenue, and that Sir John Lawrence, the Commissioner in Peshawar, would shortly dispatch a force to the village to enforce the payment. The community being a small one, it was not likely that the British force would be numerous; and Rahmut conceived the idea of laying an ambush for it on its return and running off with the revenue. He had a motive beyond that of the mere acquisition of wealth. He felt that a successful attack on a British force would greatly enhance his prestige, and strengthen his hold on the allegiance of his new clansmen.

The project was talked over in council, and the only man who ventured to oppose it was old Ahsan the gate-keeper, who, since his defence of the tower, had enjoyed a much higher consideration with the chief. Ahsan warned Rahmut against measuring his strength with the British. It was one thing to make an occasional raid on the frontier stations for the purpose of stealing horses, and quite another to attack a properly equipped force. But his warning fell on deaf ears, and no one more vehemently opposed him than the chief's nephew Dilasah, who, since recovering from the wound he had received in the attack on the village, had professed repentance and left nothing undone to win his uncle's favour. The old man, being of a frank and unsuspicious disposition, freely pardoned Dilasah for his former ill-behaviour and his dealings with Minghal, and was greatly delighted one day when the man told him that he gave up all pretensions to the chiefship and admitted Ahmed's claims. Dilasah had a certain reputation for shrewdness and bravery, and his voice, being unhesitatingly in favour of the scheme Rahmut proposed, outweighed what was regarded as the more timorous counsel of Ahsan.

The expedition having been decided on, Rahmut sent Dilasah himself to Peshawar in the disguise of a pedlar, to discover what he could of the composition of the British force and the date of its setting out. Meanwhile he was troubled by the request that Ahmed had made to be allowed to join the expedition. The boy had shown himself brave and resourceful; and Rahmut felt that if he took arms against his countrymen the last link would be removed between him and them. On the other hand, he did not fail to see that the expedition would be a dangerous one, and though he believed that he could carry it through successfully, he was anxious to keep Ahmed out of harm's way, and especially to run no risk of his falling into English hands. If Ahmed should be taken prisoner, the old chief feared lest the contact with Englishmen should awaken race feelings now dormant, and the boy be lost to him. So, after much hesitation and much pleading on the part of Ahmed, the old chief told him kindly enough that he was not to accompany him, but to be left in charge of the village during his absence.

Ahmed was deeply disappointed. Rahmut gave him no reasons for his decision; he was a wise old man; reasons could be combated and overcome. When Ahmed asked Ahsan why his father was so loath to let him try his manhood, Ahsan confessed that he did not know, which was true and yet untrue; for, though the chief had not told him, Ahsan had made a shrewd guess.

"Rahmut does not wish it ever to be said of you, 'He takes off his clothes before he reaches the water,'" said Ahsan, quoting a proverb against precipitancy. "Why fear?" he went on. "'Milk even in good time becomes curds.' He who has patience wins. It will come to you in good time to lead men and do great things."

"I hate your proverbs," said Ahmed; "they have no comfort in them. Will my father never see that I am grown up?"

"Thou wouldst not fight against thy own countrymen, Ahmed-ji?"

"Why not? Sherdil fights against his countrymen, why not I? And they are my countrymen no longer; my countrymen are here. What have I to do with these strangers who come lording it over the free people of the hills?"

"Hush, Ahmed-ji!" said the old man. "Children cry to their parents. To speak ill of the Feringhis is to speak ill of yourself. Let be, my son; what a man desires he will gain if it be God's will."

And Ahmed, being a sensible boy, did not nurse his disappointment. But perhaps the old chief would have changed his mind had he known that his refusal had only made the boy more eager to see the white men of whom Sherdil had told him so much.

Dilasah presently returned from his journey to Peshawar. His information was that the expedition was to start in a week's time, and to consist of a single troop of Sikh horsemen under the command of one sahib. He had learnt the route it was to follow; it would pass within three days' march of Shagpur. Rahmut praised him, and did not inquire how he had made these discoveries; but Ahsan put the question bluntly when the chief called his council together and told them what he had learnt.

"It was the talk of the bazar," said Dilasah, looking astonished.

"Then it cannot be true," said Ahsan. "Would the Feringhis let their purpose be known? Are there not hundreds who would carry the news to Lal Jan, the chief, and warn him, so that he had time to get away into the hills? If it was the talk of the bazar, 'tis very certain that things will be otherwise."

Dilasah appeared for a moment to be taken aback. Ahsan was certainly right, and the older members of the council showed their agreement with his reasoning. But Dilasah, after a hesitation so brief as to be scarcely noticeable, said with a disdainful smile—

"The ass does not know how to laugh. Is Ahsan the only man of knowledge and understanding? The knowing bird is not caught in the snare, and I, Dilasah, am not a fledgeling. The expedition was in truth the talk of the bazar, but I did not swallow what was said there. How should the truth be known? I sought out in Peshawar a holy fakir whom I know. He hates the infidel Feringhis, and he has means of finding out their plans, most marvellous. The talk of the bazar and the truth were as different as fire and water; and what I have told is not the bazar-talk, but the truth as I learnt it from the fakir."

"Then, if he hates the Feringhis, will he not warn Lal Jan, and so Lal Jan will fly to the hills with his treasure, and the Feringhis will get nothing, so that when our people fall upon them their bags will be empty?"

"Not so," said Dilasah, in answer to this further question of Ahsan. "He is no friend to Lal Jan; Lal Jan is, indeed, a thorn in his quilt; he will gain double delight from the spoiling, first of Lal Jan, and afterwards of the Feringhis. But why talk thus? If Ahsan, who is old and toothless, thinks himself so clever, let him go to Peshawar and learn the truth of things. As for me, I have done the chief's bidding; it is for him to command."

And with the air of one who had been deeply offended, Dilasah left the council.

After he had gone, Rahmut asked Ahsan why he threw doubt on the accuracy of the information; and when the old man confessed that he had no reason save a distrust of Dilasah, the chief was angry. Dilasah could have no object in bringing false information, for he was to accompany the chief in the proposed raid, and would suffer equally with the rest if it should fail. It was decided in the end to accept his report as accurate, and preparations for the expedition were hurried on.

A few days later, Rahmut Khan left the village at the head of eighty men—the pick of his own and of Minghal's warriors. Ahmed, left behind with a score of fighting men to defend the village, watched his father's departure with envy. How he longed that the place at the chief's right hand had been bestowed on him instead of on Dilasah! But it was useless to repine; he could only swallow his disappointment and hope that during his father's absence something might happen to give him an opportunity for active work.

Rahmut could scarcely be expected to return before a fortnight. The British force would take some time in the work assigned to it, and the chief's plan was to ambush it on its return journey, when in possession of the revenue it had been sent to collect. Ahmed went every day to the top of the tower to scan the surrounding country, but saw nothing to attract his attention. Life went on in the village from day to day as usual, the fighting men spending most of the time in playing games of chance, the workers toiling for an hour or two and idling the rest. Ahmed was of too active a disposition to remain idle. He practised swordsmanship with one or two of the men, went hunting in the hills behind the village with some of the youths, and induced some of the best riders to join him in the game of nazabaze, in which he proved himself easily first.

And then one day, the fifteenth since his father's departure, he saw from his look-out on the tower a band of horsemen approaching. There was great excitement in the village when he told them the news; nobody had any doubt that the chief was returning successful, and all excitedly speculated on the amount of booty he had taken. Ahmed watched the approach of the horsemen as eagerly as any one. At first a mere blot on the sky, sometimes disappearing behind a copse or in a valley, the band gradually became more distinct and definite, and after two hours he was able to assure himself that it did indeed consist of his father's men.

But it seemed somewhat diminished, and when, an hour later, it had come so near that he could distinguish the individuals composing it, he suddenly caught Ahsan by the arm and cried—

"Where is my father? I do not see him; do you?"

"Your eyes are better than mine, Ahmed-ji," replied the old man. "Without doubt your father is there in the midst, and you will see him by and by."

But after a few more minutes Ahmed cried again—

"He is not there. I do not see his red turban or his white beard. I see Dilasah, but not my father."

And then, feeling no little alarm at the chief's absence, he ran down to the foot of the tower, mounted his horse, and galloped out to meet the advancing band.

"Where is my father, Dilasah?" he cried, while he was still some distance away.

"Hai! hai! he is not here," replied the man, with a gloomy look.

"But where is he? He is not dead?"

"No, truly he is not dead, praise to Allah! Not one of us is killed, Ahmed; but my honoured uncle, with some few more, is a prisoner with those pigs of English, woe is me!"

"A prisoner! Then he failed?"

"We failed, all of us. We came to the place which we had appointed for our ambush, and there we waited three days, and on the third day we saw the accursed Feringhi and his men coming down the defile towards us. Then we split up into three bands, as we had arranged, and my reverend uncle went with one band to one side, and I with my band to the other side, Rajab going with the third to the end of the defile to cut off the enemy when they should seek to escape."

"And what then?"

"Woe is me! From our post high up in the rocks we could see the chief with his band creeping on foot round on the other side of the defile, and there on a sudden men seemed to spring out of the earth; my honoured uncle had walked into a trap without doubt set for him by those accursed sons of dogs. In an instant he was surrounded, and what could he do with his few men against twice the number of Sikhs? There was no time even to fight, for the Sikhs were armed with the short guns that fire quickly, and the white-faced Feringhi called in a loud voice to the chief to yield or he would be a dead man. What could he do? And so he was made prisoner with all his band."

"And you—did you nothing to help him?"

"Nay, how could I tell that Sikhs were not coming on my side also to encompass me?"

"You ran away?"

"What could I do? If we had fired a shot we should have betrayed ourselves to the enemy, and we were not strong enough to fight them when the chief and his party were gone. And there was danger that Rajab, who was at the end of the defile behind us and had not seen what had befallen the chief, might fire and so be discovered also; and it seemed best to join him, so that our company should be stronger in case the enemy attacked us."

A youth of Pathan blood would without doubt have burst forth into shrill cursing and reviling; there would have been a fierce war of words, and by and by perhaps a knife-thrust. But Ahmed never displayed anger in the Pathan way; in this he was often a puzzle to the people of Shagpur. He said not a word now in answer to Dilasah. The lines of his face had hardened; his lips were pressed tight together; a strange look had come into his grey eyes. He rode at a quick foot-pace beside Dilasah back to the village, listening to the man's repetition of the story of the capture. He listened to it again in the village, where Dilasah told it in the street, and the people made great lamentation with cries and groans. And then, when the horsemen had dismounted and gone to their homes, he accompanied Ahsan to his little hut, and asked the old man what he thought of the things that had happened.

"Dilasah is a coward—that is sure," said Ahsan. "Did we not know it? He fled away as a lark flies at the first throw. A man fights; a dog turns tail. 'Tis an evil fate has befallen the master, and this village of Shagpur also."

"Is Dilasah's story true, think you?" asked Ahmed.

"Without doubt it is true. A lie has no legs. Did not all the men hear what he said? He would not say what is false in the hearing of them all, for they would put him to shame."

"And what will become of my father?"

"Hai! that Allah knows, Ahmed-ji. Jan Larrens is a stern man, they say, and swift to punish. The Feringhis have many ways of punishing. Sometimes they slay with a rope; sometimes they make a man pay much money; sometimes they hold him prisoner. Who can tell what they will do with the master!"

"And we cannot help him, can we, Ahsan?"

"Ahuh! 'tis impossible. Peshawar is a strong city: once and twice I have been there in my youth—before the Feringhis came. Jan Larrens is the governor now; he has many soldiers, both Feringhis and true believers who take their pay, like Sherdil, son of Assad. It would be like a man beating his head against the rocks to go there and try to release the master by force. And to buy his freedom is alike impossible. In the old days we might have sent presents to the jailer, or to the governor of the prison, or to the governor of the city, and if the presents were rich enough the gates of the prison would open. But that is all changed since the servants of Jan Kumpani came. Strange are the ways of the Feringhis! Their eyes do not shut when one offers to put rupees in their palms; nay, I heard of a young Feringhi at Lahore, who, when Kunwar Khan spoke of giving him a great sum if he would buy Kunwar's mildewed grain for the soldiers—this young Feringhi doubled his fist and smote Kunwar in the face, and he fell backward, showing the soles of his feet. Truly the Feringhis are a strange folk."

"Well then, Ahsan, there is but one thing to do. I shall be chief now, and I will get more and more men about me until we are strong enough to make an attack on the prison and bring my father out. He has broken into their places with a few men and taken their horses; why should not I with a great company break into their prison and bring forth a man?"

Ahsan shook his head.

"You can climb the mulberry-tree, but not the thorny acacia," he said; "that is foolish talk. And you forget Dilasah."

"What of Dilasah?"

"Hai! He will make himself chief now, Ahmed-ji; and listen, let me speak in your ear. Did I not distrust Dilasah? Did I not doubt him when he spoke of the talk of the bazar?"

"What do you mean? Why do you speak in whispers? Tell me, Ahsan."

"Hush! Traitors have long ears." Then, bending forward until his lips almost touched the ears of Ahmed, he said: "Do we know that Dilasah did not make ready this trap for the master?"

Ahmed started. This suspicion had not occurred to him. But remembering Dilasah's long association with Minghal, the man of wiles, and his sudden change of attitude towards his uncle, he saw that Ahsan's suggestion might be well founded. Who stood to gain so much from Rahmut Khan's disappearance as Dilasah? He coveted the chiefship; he had been consumed with anger when Rahmut adopted Ahmed as his heir; nothing was more likely than that he should seize such an opportunity of getting rid of the old chief, and so open the way to his ambition.

"Then it will be a fight between Dilasah and me," said the boy, setting his teeth.

"Hai! That is again foolishness," replied the old man. "What can you do, Ahmed-ji? Dilasah is a grown man, cunning as a leopard. He will speak soft words to the people, and when he tells them 'tis a choice between him and you, and you a Feringhi, think you they will respect the desires of the master when he is far away? Many love you, some are indifferent, some are envious; but when Dilasah has said his say, and made his promises, and got the mullah on his side—as he will do with presents of sheep and tobacco—think you that even those who love you will offend Allah and risk the pains of Gehenna for you? There is talk even now that the Feringhis wish to make us all Christians. Dilasah and the mullah will persuade the folk that you, if you become their chief, will turn them from the true belief. I am an old man, Ahmed-ji, but though I have a white beard and toothless gums I can yet see a cloud in the sky."

Ahmed frowned. He had not foreseen these difficulties. He repeated the Koran and said the prayers the mullah had taught him; in nothing did he fall short of the observances required of good Mohammedans. In the early days of his life in Shagpur, when he went tearfully to bed, he had repeated the little prayers learnt at his mother's knee; but in the long years since then, during which he had heard no word of English spoken around him, these English prayers had slipped from him. It was absurd to suppose that when he became chief he would try to turn the people to a religion of which he knew nothing. He could not but think that Ahsan's fears were groundless, and when next day Dilasah met him with a frank smile, and, after a word of commiseration of the unhappy fate of Rahmut Khan, addressed him with apparent cordiality as the new chief, he ran to tell Ahsan that he was quite mistaken.

There was sorrow in the village at the loss of Rahmut Khan. The people were proud of him, and with shrill cries called down maledictions on the Feringhis. But no one spoke of attempting anything on his behalf; Ahsan's views on that matter were shared by them all. Dilasah led the way in professions of loyalty to Ahmed, much to the wonderment of the old gate-keeper. Ahsan watched him narrowly. He did not believe in his sincerity, and yet could see no object in his feigning a loyalty he did not feel. And it was not until some days had passed that a light flashed upon him. Though Dilasah agreed with the rest of the men that it was impossible to rescue the old chief, he said that it was surely desirable that an attempt should be made to discover his fate. And at that, Assad, the father of Sherdil, offered to make the journey to Peshawar to inquire.

"Who better than I?" he said. "Sherdil, my son, is a great man among the Feringhis; it is a good thing that I, his father, should visit him and see with my own eyes the greatness that has come to him. Without doubt he will be in Peshawar or some place near at hand; it will be easy for me to find him, and he will assuredly know what has become of our master. I will go to Peshawar, and bring back news of the chief, and also, I doubt not, some manifest tokens of the estimation in which my son is held."

This offer he made to Ahmed in the presence of Dilasah, and the latter strongly urged its acceptance. Accordingly, two days after the return of the luckless expedition, Assad set off disguised as a mendicant, to escape all danger of being snapped up by a hostile tribe if he went otherwise. And shrewd old Ahsan now saw through the conduct of Dilasah. The man would not feel safe until he knew for certain that Rahmut Khan was permanently out of the way. If there was the least chance of the chief's return—whether by escape, or by payment of a fine, for Dilasah was very hazy as to what his punishment would be—it behooved him to go carefully. Shagpur would never side with him against its rightful chief; and if Rahmut should come back and find that he had tried to oust Ahmed, he knew that he could expect no mercy from his kinsman. He was thus biding his time, thought Ahsan, until Rahmut's fate was known with certainty, and then he would show his hand.

"You must be ready for flight when Assad comes back," said the gate-keeper to Ahmed.

"Why should I flee?" asked the boy.

"Because if you do not it will befall you as it befell Sundar Khan. He had a rival in the succession to his father, even as you have, and Gulam, the rival, offered to put the matter before a council of the clansmen and abide by their choice. The choice fell upon Sundar Khan, whereupon Gulam made a great feast to celebrate the happy end of the dispute, to which came Sundar Khan and many of his friends. And when the pipe of peace was passing round after the feast, Gulam slipped away secretly to the door and lighted a match, and even as he himself ran for his life, Sundar Khan and all his friends were blown up into the air. So Gulam made himself chief, and so also will Dilasah if he learns that Rahmut Khan is put out of the way."

This advice was distasteful to Ahmed, and for some days he refused to consider it. Dilasah was still very pleasant; made no assumption of authority; said once, with a mournful shake of the head, that Ahmed would soon be chief in reality, for Rahmut, being old, could not long survive imprisonment. But a day or two after he said something which recalled the story Ahsan had told, and Ahmed for the first time began to think that his life might indeed be in danger.

"'Tis to be feared we shall never see Rahmut Khan again, Ahmed-ji," said Dilasah, "and when Assad returns with the news of what has befallen him, and we have no longer hope, we must put away our sorrow and make a feast to hail thee as chief. Dost thou approve, Ahmed-ji?"

Ahmed looked at the fat, smiling face with the cunning little eyes, and in the light of what Ahsan had said saw villainy there.

"It will be well, Dilasah," he said. "We will have a feast, and Rahmut's women and my sisters shall make us sweetmeats with their own hands. That will be a great day, Dilasah."

And Dilasah smiled and rubbed his hands, and Ahmed went off to tell Ahsan. There was no longer any doubt that Rahmut's nephew meditated mischief, but Ahmed was still disinclined to take flight. He was popular with the younger men, and suggested to Ahsan that they might form a party in opposition to Dilasah and forestall him.

"Hai!" said Ahsan. "Crows home in the nests of hawks. It is vain, Ahmed-ji. I have seen Dilasah many times in converse with the mullah; he is cunning as a fox. Thou wilt be safe only by flight. My counsel to thee is to have thy good horse Ruksh ready, and when Assad returns with the bad news—for my heart tells me it will be bad—ride out that very night."

"And whither should I ride, Ahsan? This is my home. I have nowhere to go."

"Make thyself known to the Feringhis, Ahmed-ji. Maybe thou hast kinsmen among them."

"'Tis folly, Ahsan. Who would believe me? I cannot speak the Feringhi speech, save one or two words that come back to me sometimes. I know nothing of the Feringhis' ways; I do not know the name of my true father. Dost thou remember it, old friend?"

"Nay, I have often sought for it in my mind, but it is gone. Rahmut knows it, and Minghal also, but it is clean gone from me."

"Then how could I prove to the Feringhis that I am one of them? No, I like it not; and furthermore, Rahmut lies in prison, and I begin to believe that it is even as thou sayest—that Dilasah betrayed him. Is it not my duty by some means to bring Rahmut back and deal with Dilasah as he deserves?"

"Hai! foolish talk again. Think of what I say, Ahmed-ji; the time is not long; Assad will soon be back, and then if thou art not gone, Dilasah will seek thy life and take it."

Ahmed was impressed by the warnings of Ahsan, still more when he found that the old gate-keeper's views were shared by Rahmut Khan's family. Since Minghal's raid these ladies, with their children and servants, like Ahmed himself, had remained in the tower, and the chief's usual house had been unoccupied. Dilasah had been given the house in which he had lived before his breach with his uncle years before. On the day after Ahsan had spoken so seriously, when Ahmed paid his usual visit of respect to Rahmut's principal wife, Meriem, the lady strongly urged him not to go about the village alone.

"That evil man Dilasah hates thee," she said. "Gather some of the young men who love Rahmut and thee, Ahmed-ji, and have them always about thee when thou goest into the streets."

Ahmed thought the advice worth taking, but the position irked him. The constraint was unendurable after his customary life of freedom, and he felt that it must be ended one way or another. The obvious way—the natural way to a Pathan—was to meet Dilasah with his own weapons and kill him at the first opportunity. But Dilasah's party was stronger than his own, and supposing his enemy were out of the way, the prejudice against him as one of Feringhi birth would render his position still very insecure. The death of Dilasah would probably result in a feud between his faction and Ahmed's. No one could say how such a strife would end, but certainly it would in no way help towards the restoration of Rahmut Khan to his village, the object Ahmed had most at heart. The boy concluded that he had better leave the village and go to Peshawar, to see whether some means might not be found of freeing the old chief. It was a debt he owed to the man who had saved his life and loved him so well. Ahsan might talk of the difficulties, but Ahsan was an old man; old men often saw difficulties where young men could see none. Ahsan would not have crept to the shed and blown up Minghal's powder; Ahsan would not have taken part in Sherdil's daring stratagem against Minghal's village; yet both of these hazardous enterprises had been successful. Ahsan might talk as he pleased: certainly this was what Ahmed would do.

But Ahsan, when the new plan was put to him, did not speak of the difficulties. He applauded the boy's decision, and even begged him to carry it out at once, without waiting for Assad's return. Ahmed would not consent to this. Assad's news might have some bearing on his future course of action. Besides, before he left the village he wished to know whether their suspicions of Dilasah were well founded. If they were, he would have two aims in life: to bring back Rahmut Khan, and to punish Dilasah.

It was three weeks before Assad returned. He came in one day weary and footsore, and in great depression of spirits.

"Hai! Sherdil was ever a liar," he said dolefully, when amid a circle of the chief men of the village he made his report to Ahmed. "He a great man with the sahibs, forsooth! Why, he is but a servant, and does foolishness. I found him not in Peshawar; weary as I was, I had to go two days' journey to Mardan in the north-east. And what did I see there? Two score of men standing in line beneath the walls, and a Feringhi with a boy's face calling out strange words to them, and as he spoke these men lifted their right feet all together, and held them in the air as a goose does, and then let them fall to the ground again, and up came their left feet, all together, and so they marched, very slowly. And then they stopped, and moved their feet up and down without walking; 'twas the most foolish thing I ever saw. And then at another word from the Feringhi dog they lifted their guns—short guns for babies, not like our jazails—and held them straight before their noses, and at another word they let them down again and crossed their hands over them, and so stood without motion, as quiet and still as if they had been trees. And I called to Sherdil, and bade him come and greet his father; but he neither looked at me nor said a word, not daring to make a movement except at the bidding of the Feringhi boy. And afterwards, when the Feringhi made a hissing between his teeth—'Dissmisss!' was the word of the foolish one—Sherdil came to me and asked me with great violence why I had tried to get him punished, for it seems that if he had walked out of the line, or lifted a hand, or spoken a word save at the bidding of the Feringhi, he would have suffered grievous stripes, or have received no sheep's flesh to eat. Cursed be the dogs of Feringhis! That is what they make of the free-men of the hills."

"But what of my father?" asked Ahmed, to whom this description of European drill was not interesting.

"Thy father? Hai! He is shut up for five years."

He was interrupted by shrill cries from the men around. Ahmed, stealing a glance at Dilasah, saw his eyes flash with satisfaction.

"Yes, for five years he is to lie in the Feringhis' prison. That is the judgment of Jan Larrens. And Sherdil, my wretched son, said that it was his just deserts and the due reward of foolishness. Hai! if I had known what I know now, I would have cut off Sherdil's right hand sooner than let him go back to do goose-step and other things unworthy of a Pathan. And when I told him what I thought, he laughed at me with great laughter, and said, 'Go back, foolish one, or verily I will tell Lumsden Sahib of thee, and ere thou knowest thou wilt be doing goose-step too. Lumsden Sahib will have thee.' And I shook the dust off my feet and departed; and my heart is sore vexed, for I thought my son was a great man, and would do me honour in my old age."

There was much shaking of heads at this exposure of Sherdil's boastfulness, and much sympathy expressed for Assad. But the man was an ignorant fellow, a dyer by trade, who had seldom left the village, and Ahmed felt sure that he had in some way been mistaken.

Assad's news about Rahmut Khan did but confirm his resolution to leave the village. He was on the point of mentioning it to Dilasah when that plausible man himself came to him, all smiles and geniality.

"Salaam, Ahmed," he said. "'Tis to be feared we shall never see our chief Rahmut Khan again. He is an old man; the prison will kill him. No man can strive against fate, and it is not meet that we sorrow overmuch for what cannot be altered. Therefore am I come to bid thee to a feast, Ahmed-ji, at which we will hail thee as chief and be merry."

"But I cannot be chief while my father lives."

"True, but what matters it? Thou wilt be chief in his absence, it is what he himself would wish; and if by Allah's mercy he does not die in the Feringhis' prison, but comes back to us, he will rejoice that we held a feast in thy honour. This feast will be to-morrow, Ahmed-ji, and I have already ordered the finest sheep to be killed."

Ahmed had no reasonable excuse for declining the invitation, and Dilasah went away well pleased.

But later in the day there came to Ahmed an old Hindu scribe who had settled in the village years before. In all considerable Pathan villages there were a few men of Hindu race—low-caste men, who plied petty trades among the Mohammedans in the hope of making money. This man had been protected once by Ahmed against the rabble of the village when he had unwittingly given them offence. He came to the tower as soon as it was dark, and being admitted to Ahmed's room, said—

"Hazur, I come to warn you. I remember the kindness wherewith you saved your servant when he was in peril of his life, and it is meet and right to show gratitude. Besides, our lord and master Rahmut Khan will reward me when he returns, as he assuredly will do. But that is a little matter. I may be dead before that time comes, and even without a reward I would do much for you, hazur. And now what I say is this: go not to the feast to which Dilasah has bid you. I have spoken it."

"But why, Dinga Ghosh?"

"To-day," said the man, dropping his voice, "when I was sitting at my writing behind my lattice, I heard two of Dilasah's friends talking together. Without doubt they supposed me asleep, and indeed it was very hot, and I should have been asleep but for some good jin that held my eyelids. The men talked, and spoke of the morrow's feast, at which they would be guests, and one said that it would be a merry feast, and when it was ended no man would be in doubt as to who was chief of Shagpur. And both chuckled at this, and shortly after went away, and peeping through my lattice I beheld them that they were minions of Dilasah. For this reason have I come to warn you; without doubt mischief is intended."

"I thank thee, Dinga Ghosh," said Ahmed, "and be sure that my father will reward thee when he comes back."

"Salaam, hazur," said the Hindu, and went away as secretly as he had come.

Ahmed had no longer any doubt that he must go; Shagpur was no longer safe for him. He had no scruples about leaving his father's household; Dilasah would never dare to molest them, in face of public opinion. There was nothing to detain him. But, as he had told Ahsan, he would never slink out of the place furtively like a dog in fear of a whipping. No doubt if he pleased he might slip down over the wall in the night. He would not use that way, but go openly and in broad daylight through the gate.

Next morning, therefore, he told the chief's family of his resolve.

"It is wise, Ahmed-ji," said Meriem; "but we are loath to lose thee. Yet it is the part of a good son to do what may be done for his father, and we shall love thee the more if thou bringest back our lord in safety. But I fear lest Dilasah will not let thee go."

"Wah! He will be glad to be rid of me," said Ahmed.

"Not so. Does he wish our lord Rahmut to return? Will he feel safe if he live in fear that thou mayst return one day, perhaps after many years, and become in very truth lord of Shagpur? Nay, Dilasah would fain kill thee while thou art yet a boy; it will not be so easy when thou art a man."

"Nevertheless, O pearl, I will go, and Dilasah shall not stay me."

He bade farewell to the ladies and their daughters, left them, and went immediately to saddle his horse. A Pathan starting on a journey needs but little equipment; his horse, his weapons, a trifle of money, a wallet of food—with these he is ready. A few minutes after he left the women he rode boldly from the courtyard towards the gate. He was surprised to find it closed, and in charge of a new gate-keeper.

"Where is Ahsan?" he demanded sharply.

The man replied that Ahsan being sick, he had been sent to take his place. Ahmed immediately grasped the situation. This was Dilasah's first move; he meant to make sure that his invited guest and victim should not escape him. Luckily Dilasah's house was at the other side of the village; Ahmed felt that he had perhaps a few moments to spare.

"Open the gate," he said to the new gate-keeper.

The man hesitated; clearly he had his orders. Instantly Ahmed's knife flashed before his eyes. There was no escape for him, with Ahmed above him. Haltingly he moved towards the gate, trying to gain time. Perhaps Dilasah or some of his friends would arrive before Ahmed had passed through. There were men and children in the street, and Ahmed heard them calling to one another; no doubt, unless they were in the secret, they were surprised at seeing the young chief leaving the village on the very day of the feast. The news would soon fly through the place.

"Quick!" cried Ahmed to the gate-keeper, "or you are a dead man."

The man cringed, and drew the bolts. Ahmed, his knife in one hand, leant forward and with the other pulled open the massive structure, which creaked on its hinges. Seizing the opportunity, the man slipped aside and ran up the street shouting for assistance. Ahmed walked his horse quietly through the gateway. He heard cries behind him; it would take a minute or two for horsemen to saddle up, mount, and follow, and there were few horses within fifty miles that could match his Ruksh in speed—the arab he had trained to come at his call, and to kneel down at a word. Some one might shoot at him from the wall, but he must take his chance of that; he disdained to run while he was yet in sight. He turned his horse towards a hill a quarter of a mile away, and did not set him to a trot until he had rounded the shoulder and the village was hid from him. Then he rode on for half-a-mile until he gained a spot whence the walls again came into view. Turning his head, he saw a dozen horsemen pouring through the gate. It was time to be off. With a touch upon his flank and a word in his ear the horse broke into a gallop. Even with a heavier burden than his master the arab could outpace any horse in the village, and under Ahmed's light weight he would, barring accidents, easily distance the pursuers.

Ahmed had purposely chosen a track that wound along at the base of the hills, for the undulations of the country would baffle the pursuers, who could not press on at their utmost speed for fear of a fall. Every now and then he had to pull in his horse to avoid a stumble, and his care enabled the enemy for a mile or two to keep him in sight. They could not circumvent him, for he knew every foot of the hills, and could turn off in any direction at need, with perfect confidence in his ability to elude them. They were bound to follow in his tracks. So for some time the chase continued, the distance between pursuers and pursued scarcely varying. At length Ahmed, feeling that the hills had served their turn in tiring the horses of Dilasah and his troop, swept down into the plain and gave Ruksh his head. The gallant animal flew on at a bounding pace. In half-an-hour the pursuers were hopelessly distanced. Coming to a point from which he could see a long stretch of level ground behind him, Ahmed pulled up, turned in his saddle, and narrowly scanned the course of his flight. There in the far distance were his pursuers, but riding the other way. They had given up the chase.