Daughters of Destiny
[Illustration: AHMED KHAN TO THE RESCUE.]
DAUGHTERS
_of_
DESTINY
BY
SCHUYLER STAUNTON
AUTHOR OF “THE FATE OF A CROWN”
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago
COPYRIGHT, 1906
BY
THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
LIST OF CHAPTERS
BOOK I--THE MAN
CHAPTER PAGE
I PRINCE KASAM OF BALUCHISTAN 11
II THE AMERICAN COMMISSION 20
III THE PERSIAN PHYSICIAN 41
IV THE DAUGHTER OF THE VIZIER 49
V THE PERIL OF BURAH KHAN 61
VI THE MAN OF DESTINY 71
VII DIRRAG 83
VIII A WOMAN’S WAY 111
IX THE SIXTH DAY 119
X AHMED KHAN 130
BOOK II--THE WOMAN
XI CAPTURE OF DAVID THE JEW 151
XII THE GIRL ON THE DIVAN 172
XIII A WILD WOOING 189
XIV THE VEILED WOMAN 206
XV SALAMAN 215
XVI THE ABDUCTION 224
XVII DAVID SELLS AN IMPORTANT SECRET 230
XVIII THE VIZIER OPENS THE GATE 246
XIX IN THE GARDEN OF AGAHR 262
XX THE GIRL IN THE HAREM 270
XXI THE CHAMBER OF DEATH 284
XXII BY THE HAND OF ALLAH 288
XXIII THE VENGEANCE OF MAIE 298
XXIV THE SPIRIT OF UNREST 301
XXV KASAM KHAN 308
XXVI HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE KHANUM 317
BOOK I
THE MAN
CHAPTER I
PRINCE KASAM OF BALUCHISTAN
“What country did you say, Prince?”
“Baluchistan, my lord.”
The great financier lay back in his chair and a slight smile flickered
over his stern features. Then he removed his eye-glasses and twirled
them thoughtfully around his finger as he addressed the young man
opposite.
“I remember,” said he, “that when I attended school as a boy one of my
chiefest trials in geography was to learn how to bound Baluchistan.”
“Ah, do not say that, sir,” exclaimed Prince Kasam, eagerly. “It is a
customary thing, whenever my country is mentioned, for an Englishman to
refer to his geography. I have borne the slight with rare patience, Lord
Marvale, since first I came, a boy, to London; but permit me to say
that I expected _you_ to be better informed.”
“But, why?” asked the nobleman, raising his brows at the retort.
“Because Baluchistan is a great country, sir. You might drop all of
England upon one of its plains--and have some trouble to find it again.”
Lord Marvale’s eyes twinkled.
“And how about London?” he asked. “You have many such cities, I
suppose?”
“There is but one London, my lord,” answered the young man composedly;
“and, to be frank with you, there are few clusters of houses in my
country that are worthy the name of cities. We Baluchi are a wild race,
as yet untamed by the influence of your western civilization, and those
who wander in desert and plain far exceed in numbers the dwellers in
towns.”
“I am not so ignorant as you may suppose,” declared Lord Marvale; “for
it is a part of my business training to acquire information concerning
all countries of the world, however remote and barbaric they may be. For
instance, I know that your country is ruled by the Khan of Kelat, and
that the English have established a protectorate over it.”
“Kelat!” cried the other, a touch of scorn in his tone; “that, sir, is
not Baluchistan at all. It is the country of the Brahoes, a weak and
cowardly race that is distinct from the Baluchi, my own people. Small
wonder they need the English to protect them! But Kelat, although placed
in Baluchistan by your map-makers, is another country altogether, and
the unconquered Baluchi owe no allegiance to any nation in the world.”
For a time the financier sat silently in his chair. Then he asked:
“You have lived here since childhood, Prince?”
“Since eight years of age, my lord.”
“Why were you educated in London, if your people dislike Europeans?”
“For political reasons, sir. I am the sole legitimate descendant of
seven generations of Khans of Mekran--rulers of all Baluchistan. But in
my grandsire’s time our throne was usurped by Keedar Khan, a fierce
tribesman who carried all before his mighty sword. His son, Burah Khan,
now an old man and in bad health, at present rules at Mekran. Therefore
I was sent by my kinsmen, who are yet powerful and loyal to our family,
to London, that I might escape assassination at the hands of the
usurpers.”
“I see; you hope to succeed Burah Khan.”
“That is my ambition. All that stands in my way is a son of the khan,
who, however, has been confined in a Sunnite monastery since youth and
is reported to be more fitted to become a priest than a ruler of men.”
“Well?”
“My lord, I desire your coöperation and assistance. Twice have I
secretly revisited Baluchistan, where my uncle is vizier to the present
khan. The adherents to my cause are many. We have no money, but possess
vast store of rare jewels, and much gold and silver plate hoarded for
centuries--since the day when Alexander’s army, marching through our
land, was forced to abandon and cast aside much of its burden of
plunder. If we can convert this treasure into money it is our intention
to hire an army of Afghan mercenaries to assist us and with their aid to
rise at the death of Burah Khan, which cannot be long delayed, and again
seize the throne that by right belongs to me. You, my lord, are noted
for your shrewdness in financing great affairs. Here is one of magnitude
in which you may profit largely. Will you aid me?”
The man appealed to was, through long experience, a competent judge of
human nature, and while Kasam spoke he studied the young Oriental
critically.
The prince was of medium height, full faced and broad shouldered. His
beard was clipped in modern fashion, and he wore a conventional frock
coat. But his swarthy skin and glittering dark eyes proclaimed his
Eastern origin, and for head-dress he wore the turban of his tribe,
twisted gracefully but with studied care into that particular fold which
to an Oriental declared as plainly as the written page of a book the
wearer’s nationality and tribe and degree. To the Westerner a turban
means nothing more than a head-covering; to the Oriental it is eloquent
of detail. In the manner of fold, the size, the color and the material
of which it is composed, he reads clearly the wearer’s caste and
condition in life, and accords him the exact respect that is his due.
Aside from the turban, Kasam wore the tribal sash over his shoulder,
thus combining the apparel of the orient with that of the Occident in a
picturesque and most effective manner.
The expression of his face was animated and winning; he gesticulated
freely, but with grace; the words that flowed from his full red lips
were fervent, but well chosen.
Prince Kasam spoke fluent English. His handsome countenance glowed with
the eager enthusiasm of youth, with the conscious pride of high station,
of powerful friends and of a just cause.
Lord Marvale was impressed.
“Come to me in three days,” said the banker. “I will make enquiries and
take counsel with my colleagues. Then I shall be able to consider your
proposal with more intelligence.”
Three days later a long conference was held in Lord Marvale’s office,
during which Prince Kasam related with clearness yet characteristic
Eastern loquaciousness the details of a carefully planned conspiracy to
replace him upon the throne of his ancestors. The plot seemed both
simple and practical, and Lord Marvale was by no means averse to
acquiring the rare treasure of ancient plate and the rich oriental
jewels that the adherents of Prince Kasam were anxious to exchange for
English money and support.
It was not the only conference before the bargain was finally struck,
but Kasam’s proposals met with no serious opposition and it was arranged
that he should secretly return to Baluchistan, get together the
treasure, and bring it with him to London, where Lord Marvale would
convert it into money and also negotiate with the Afghans for an army of
mercenaries. The countenance and moral support of the English government
the banker could safely pledge.
It did not occur to Kasam that time might become a powerful factor in
his future plans, and that all this detail would require considerable
time to consummate. He had worn out many years of tedious waiting in
London, and really thought events were beginning to move swiftly. But
when he received a message stating that Burah Khan was failing fast and
urging him to hasten home, he realized that in order to accomplish his
purposes he must lose no single moment in delay. Therefore he hurried to
Lord Marvale with the information that he would return at once to
Baluchistan.
“Good!” exclaimed the banker. “Your decision will relieve me of a slight
embarrassment and enable me, through your courtesy, to serve an
influential friend.”
“That will please me very much,” said Kasam.
“There has arrived in London a party of American capitalists
representing a great New York syndicate, and our minister in Washington
has given their chief a letter to me, asking me to arrange for the safe
conduct of the party through Baluchistan.”
“Baluchistan! My own country? Why, my lord, few Englishmen have ever
approached its borders, and never an American--so far as I know. What
can induce them to visit Baluchistan?”
“I understand it is a matter of some railway enterprise or other. These
Americans penetrate into the most outlandish and unfrequented places,
and no one ever pays much attention to their wanderings. But the
minister’s letter asks me to supply them with a guide. What do you say,
Prince, to undertaking the task yourself? It will enable you to return
to Mekran incognito, as the conductor of a party of wealthy and
influential Americans; and, as you are not likely to be recognized, you
may accomplish your task of collecting the treasure more safely than if
you travelled alone.”
“That is true,” answered the young man, thoughtfully; and after a
moment’s reflection he added: “Very well; inform your Americans that I
will guide them to Baluchistan--even to the walls of Mekran--and no one
can do it more safely or swiftly than I.”
CHAPTER II
THE AMERICAN COMMISSION
When the American Construction Syndicate, of New York and Chicago,
conceived the idea of laying a railway across Baluchistan, through the
Alexandrian Pass and so into the Lower Indies--thus connecting Asia and
Europe by the shortest possible route--it was regarded as a bold
undertaking even for this gigantic corporation. But the Syndicate
scorned the imputation that any undertaking might be too hazardous or
difficult for it to accomplish; so, when the route was proposed and its
advantages understood, the railway was as good as built, in the minds of
the directors.
There were preliminaries, of course. A commission must be sent to
Baluchistan to secure right of way. And the route must be surveyed. But
these were mere matters of detail. Already the Syndicate had built a
road across the Balkans; even now it was laying rails in Turkestan. And
this Baluchistan route was but a part of a great system wisely and
cleverly projected.
The Alexandrian Pass was the same that nearly proved fatal to Alexander
the Great on the occasion of his invasion of India. Since then little
had been heard of it. But doubtless the Pass was still there, and had
been waiting all these years for some one to utilize it. It was part of
the domain of the Khan of Mekran, who also ruled the greater part of
Baluchistan.
The directors had the histories consulted. Baluchistan seemed
practically unknown to history. There were no books of travel in
Baluchistan. Strange! The country was there--very big on the maps--and
some one ought to know something about it. But no one apparently did.
Well, the Commission would discover all there was to know, and a
semi-barbarous country would be easy to deal with.
Next the Commission itself was considered, and Colonel Piedmont Moore
was selected as its chief. Colonel Moore was one of the Syndicate’s
largest stockholders and most respected officers, and the gentleman
himself directed the selection of the chief, because he had decided to
get away from the office for a time and travel, his health having become
undermined by too close attention to business.
Dr. Warner, his intimate friend, had repeatedly counselled him to break
away from work and take better care of himself. Travel was what he
needed--travel in such remote lands that no temptation would exist to
return to New York to “see how the Syndicate was getting on.”
When the Baluchistan Commission was first spoken of the Colonel
mentioned it to his old friend, who was also a stockholder in the
concern, the doctor having grown wealthy and retired from active
practice several years before.
“Just the thing!” declared the old gentleman. “A trip to Baluchistan
would probably set you on your feet again. Let me see--where is it?
Somewhere in South America, isn’t it?”
“No; I believe it’s in Asia,” returned the Colonel, gravely. “And that
is a long distance to journey alone.”
“Why, bless your soul! I’ll go with you,” declared Dr. Warner,
cheerfully. “I’ve intended to do a bit of travelling myself, as soon as
I got around to it; and Baluchistan has a fine climate, I’m sure.”
“No one seems to know much about it,” answered the Colonel.
“All the better! Why, we’ll be explorers. We’ll find out all about
Darkest Baluchistan, and perhaps write a book on our discoveries. We’ll
combine business and pleasure. I’m in the Syndicate. Have me appointed
as your second on the Commission, and the Syndicate shall pay our
expenses.”
So the plans were made, and afterward amplified to include the Colonel’s
son, Mr. Allison Moore, as official surveyor. Not that Allison Moore was
an especially practical or proficient man in his profession--indeed, the
directors feared just the contrary was true--but this was going to be a
sort of family party, and the Colonel was a person absolutely to be
depended upon. He was willing to vouch for his son, and that settled
the matter.
In fact, the Colonel was glad to have Allison with him on this trip.
Glad to have the young man under his eye, for one thing, and glad of an
opportunity to advance his son professionally. For Allison seemed to
have some difficulty in getting the right sort of a start, even though
he had spent years in making the attempt.
At first the young man declined to go to Baluchistan, and there were
angry words between father and son. But Dr. Warner acted as peacemaker
and Allison finally consented to go provided his father would pay
certain debts he had accumulated and make him an allowance in addition
to his salary from the syndicate. It was the first salary he had ever
received, and although the syndicate thought it liberal enough, it
seemed absurdly small to a gentleman of Allison’s requirements.
All this having been pleasantly settled, the doctor proposed taking
along his daughter Bessie, who had been pleading to go ever since the
trip was suggested.
At first the Colonel demurred.
“It’s a business expedition,” said he.
“Business and pleasure,” amended the doctor, promptly.
“And I don’t know what sort of country we’re going to. It may not be
pleasant for ladies.”
“We’ll make it pleasant for them. Better take Janet with you, Colonel,
and we’ll induce Aunt Lucy to go along as chaperon.”
“She wouldn’t consider such a trip an instant.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Janet.”
“Ask her about it.”
So the Colonel mentioned it at dinner, in a casual way, and Miss Janet
Moore at first opened her beautiful dark eyes in surprise, then
considered the matter silently for a half hour, and at dessert decided
she would go.
The Colonel was pleased. It was difficult to interest Janet in anything,
and if the Baluchistan trip would draw her out of her dreamy lassitude
and awaken in her something of her old bright self, why, the syndicate
be thanked for conceiving the idea of a Commission!
The old gentleman tolerated his son as a cross to be borne with
Christian resignation: he was devoted to his beautiful daughter.
Janet Moore in face and form represented that type of American girl
which has come to be acknowledged in all countries the ideal of womanly
grace and loveliness. The delicate contour of her features did not
destroy nor even abate their unmistakable strength and dignity. The
well-opened eyes were clear as a mountain pool, yet penetrating and
often discomfiting in their steadiness; the mouth was wide, yet sweet
and essentially feminine; the chin, held high and firm, was alluringly
curved and dimpled, displaying beneath it a throat so rarely perfect
that only in the Sicilian Aphrodite has sculptor ever equalled it. Her
head was poised in queenly fashion upon a form so lithe and rounded that
Diana might well have envied it, and while Janet’s expression at all
times bore a trace of sadness, a half smile always lingered upon her
lips--a smile so pathetic in its appeal that one who loved her would be
far less sympathetically affected by a flood of tears. The girl had
suffered a terrible disappointment seven years before. The man she loved
had been proven an arrant scoundrel. He had forged her father’s name;
been guilty of crime and ingratitude; worse than all else, he had run
away to escape punishment. It had been clearly proven against Herbert
Osborne, yet Janet, by a strange caprice, would never accept the proof.
She had a distinctly feminine idea that in spite of everything Herbert
was incapable of crime or any sort of dishonesty. And, knowing full well
that she stood alone in her belief, the girl proudly suffered in
silence.
There was more to Janet’s old romance than anyone ever dreamed; but
whatever the girl’s secret might be, she kept all details safely locked
within her own bosom.
The Colonel was surprised that his daughter should so readily agree to
undertake a tedious and perhaps uninteresting journey to a far-away
country; but he was nevertheless delighted. The change would assuredly
do her good, and Bessie Warner was just the jolly companion she needed
to waken her into new life.
So the doctor was informed that the two girls would accompany the
Commission, and Bessie at once set out to interview her Aunt Lucy and
persuade that very accommodating lady to go with them as chaperon. Aunt
Lucy was without a single tie to keep her in New York, and she was so
accustomed to being dragged here and there by her energetic niece that
she never stopped to enquire where Baluchistan was or how they were
expected to get there. In her mild and pleasant little voice she
remarked:
“Very well, dear. When do we start?”
“Oh, I’ll send you word, auntie. And thank you very much for being so
nice.”
“We’ll be back by Thanksgiving, I suppose?”
“I hardly know, dear. It’s a business trip of papa’s, and of course the
length of our stay depends entirely upon him and the Colonel, who is
some way interested in the matter. By the way, it’s called a Commission,
and we’ll be very important travellers, I assure you! Good bye, auntie,
dear!”
Then she hurried away; for that suggestion of returning by Thanksgiving
day, scarcely a month distant, showed her how little Aunt Lucy really
knew of the far journey she had so recklessly undertaken.
So this was the personnel of the famous Commission that was to invade
Baluchistan and secure from the Khan of Mekran a right of way for a
railroad through the Alexandrian Pass: Col. Piedmont Moore, Chief; Dr.
Luther Warner, Assistant; Allison Moore, Civil Engineer; Janet Moore and
Bessie Warner, chaperoned by Mrs. Lucy Higgins, Accessories and
Appendages.
The Commission crossed the ocean in safety; it reached London without
incident worthy of record, and there the Chief endeavored to secure some
definite knowledge of Baluchistan.
Not until he had presented the British minister’s letter to Lord Marvale
did the Colonel meet with any good fortune in his quest. Then the
atmosphere of doubt and uncertainty suddenly cleared, for a real Baluch
of Baluchistan was then in London and could be secured to pilot the
Americans to their destination.
To be sure this native--Kasam Ullah Raab by name--was uncommunicative at
first regarding the character of the Khan of Mekran or the probability
of the Syndicate’s being able to negotiate for a right of way through
his country; and, indeed, the Baluch could be induced to commit himself
neither to criticism nor encouragement of the plan. But, after all, it
was not to be supposed that much information of value could be secured
from a mere guide. The main point to be considered just then was how to
journey to Mekran with comfort and despatch, and incidentally the
accomplishments and attainments of the guide himself.
Kasam’s charming manners and frank, handsome countenance soon won the
confidence of the entire party. Even Allison Moore did not withhold his
admiration for the “gentlemanly barbarian,” as Aunt Lucy called him,
and the young ladies felt entirely at ease in his company.
“Really,” said Bessie, “our Kasam is quite a superior personage, for a
guide.”
And the prince overheard the remark and smiled.
During the journey the guide proved very thoughtful and gallant toward
the young ladies, and with the friendly familiarity common to Americans
they made Kasam one of themselves and treated him with frank
consideration. It was perhaps natural that the prince should respond by
openly confiding to them his rank and ambition, thus explaining his
reason for journeying with them in the humble capacity of guide. Before
they had reached Quettah the entire party knew every detail of Kasam’s
history, and canvassed his prospect of becoming khan as eagerly as they
did the details of their own vast enterprise. Indeed, the Colonel was
quick to recognize the advantage the Commission would acquire by being
on friendly terms with the future Khan of Mekran, and since Burah Khan
was old and suffered from many wounds received in many battles, the
chances were strongly in favor of the young prince being soon called to
the throne.
“My uncle is vizier to the usurper,” said Kasam, “and I will secure,
through him, an interview for you with Burah Khan. Also my uncle shall
extend to your party his good offices. He is the leader of the party
which is plotting to restore to me the throne of my ancestors, and is
therefore entirely devoted to my interests. Of course you will
understand that I dare not publicly announce my presence in Mekran;
therefore I will guide you as a hired servant, and so escape notice.
Only my uncle Agahr and two of the sirdars--or leaders of the
tribes--are acquainted with my person or know who I really am. But the
spies of the Khan are everywhere, as I have discovered during my former
secret visits to Mekran, and it is best for me to avoid them at this
juncture.”
All this was intensely interesting to every member of the Commission,
and it is no wonder Bessie smiled upon the handsome guide who possessed
so romantic a story. But Bessie’s brightest smiles seemed less desirable
to Kasam than one sympathetic look from Janet’s Moore’s serious dark
eyes.
The evident adoration with which the “foreign prince,” as she called
him, came to regard Miss Moore was a source of much uneasiness to Aunt
Lucy; but Janet did not seem to notice it, and the young man was ever
most humble and discreet while in her presence. In fact, there was
nothing in the prince’s behavior that the gentle old lady might complain
of openly. Yet she had her own suspicions, clinched by experienced
observation, of the foreigner’s intentions, and determined to keep a
sharp lookout in the interests of her charge. Soon they would enter a
barbarous country where this handsome prince would be more powerful than
the great Commission itself. And then?
At Quettah they secured camels and formed a caravan to cross the corner
of the Gedrasian Desert and so journey on to Mekran; but there was more
or less grumbling when this necessity was disclosed. Allison Moore, who
had behaved fairly well so far, flatly declined to go further toward the
wild and unknown country they had come so far to visit. The inn at
Quettah was fairly good. He would stay there. Vainly his father stormed
and argued, alternately; he even threatened to cut his son off with a
dime--the nearest approach to the legendary shilling he could think of;
but Allison proved stubborn. Having once declared his intention, he
answered nothing to the demands of his father or the pleadings of Dr.
Warner. He smoked his pipe, stared straight ahead and would not budge an
inch from Quettah.
“I’ll wait here till you come back,” he said, sullenly. “If you ever
do.”
This was the first disagreeable incident of the journey. Even Bessie was
depressed by Allison’s inference that they were involved in a dangerous
enterprise. As for Aunt Lucy, she suddenly conceived an idea that the
band of Afghans Kasam had employed to accompany the caravan were nothing
more than desperate bandits, who would carry the Commission into the
mountains and either murder every individual outright or hold them for
an impossible ransom.
Kasam’s earnest protestations finally disabused the minds of the ladies
of all impressions of danger. It was true that in Baluchistan they might
meet with lawless bands of Baluchi; but their caravan was too well
guarded to be interfered with. They were supplied with fleet saddle
horses and fleeter dromedaries; the twenty Afghans were bold and
fearless and would fight for them unto death. Really, they had nothing
at all to fear.
So at last they started, an imposing cavalcade, for the Khan’s
dominions, leaving Allison in the doorway of the inn smoking his
everlasting pipe and staring sullenly after them. The ladies rode
dromedaries, and found them less uncomfortable than they had at first
feared they would be. The Colonel did not seem to mind his son’s
desertion, for Kasam had whispered in his ear an amusing plan to conquer
the young surveyor’s obstinacy.
An hour later one of the prince’s Afghans, selected because he spoke
the English language, returned from the caravan to warn Allison that he
was in grave danger. The night before a plot had been overheard to
murder and rob the young man as soon as his friends had departed.
“If you shoot well and are quick with the knife,” added the Afghan,
coolly, “you may succeed in preserving your life till our return. His
Highness the Prince sent me to advise you to fight to the last, for
these scoundrels of Quettah have no mercy on foreigners.”
Then Allison stared again, rather blankly this time, and the next moment
requested the Afghan to secure him a horse.
Kasam was assuring the Colonel for the twentieth time that his son would
soon rejoin them when Allison and the Afghan rode up at a gallop and
attached themselves without a word to the cavalcade. And the Colonel was
undecided whether most to commend the guide’s cunning or his son’s
cautiousness.
This portion of their journey was greatly enjoyed by all members of the
party. The doctor declared he felt more than ever like an explorer, and
the Colonel silently speculated on all that might be gained by opening
this unknown territory to the world by means of the railway. The
distinct novelty of their present mode of progression was delightful to
the ladies, and Aunt Lucy decided she much preferred a camel to an
automobile. Even Janet’s pale cheeks gathered a tint from the desert
air, and despite the uncertainties of their pilgrimage the entire party
retained to a wonderful degree their cheerfulness and good nature.
At the end of four days they halted in a small village where Kasam
intended them to rest while he alone went forward to Mekran to obtain
their passports. For they were now upon the edge of the Khan’s
dominions, and without Burah’s protection the party was liable to
interference by some wandering tribe of Baluchi.
The accommodations they were able to secure in this unfrequented village
were none of the best, and Allison began to grumble anew, thereby
bringing upon himself a stern rebuke from the guide, who frankly
informed the young man that he was making his friends uncomfortable when
nothing could be gained by protesting.
“You cannot go back, and you dare not go forward without passports,”
said Kasam. “Therefore, if you possess any gentlemanly instincts at all,
you will endeavor to encourage the ladies and your father, instead of
adding to their annoyance. When one travels, one must be a philosopher.”
“You are impertinent,” returned Allison, scowling.
“If I yielded to my earnest desire,” said the prince, “I would ask my
men to flog you into a decent frame of mind. If I find, when I return,
that you have been disagreeable, perhaps I shall punish you in that way.
It may be well for you to remember that we are no longer in Europe.”
The young man made no reply, but Kasam remembered the vengeful look that
flashed from his eyes.
Heretofore the prince had worn the European frock coat; now he assumed
the white burnous of his countrymen. When he came to bid adieu to his
employers before starting for Mekran, Bessie declared that their guide
looked more handsome and distinguished than ever--“just like that famous
picture of the Son of the Desert, you know.”
Kasam was about to mount his horse--a splendid Arabian he had purchased
in the village--when a tall Baluch who was riding by cast a shrewd
glance into the young man’s face, sharply reined in his stallion, and
placed a thumb against his forehead, bowing low.
Kasam’s brown face went ashen grey. He gazed steadily into the
stranger’s eyes.
“You are bound for Mekran, my prince?” asked the tall Baluch, in the
native tongue.
“I ride at once.”
“Make all haste possible. Burah Khan is dying.”
“Dying? Blessed Allah!” cried Kasam, striking his forehead in despair.
“Burah Khan dying, and our plans still incomplete! I have waited too
long.”
“Perhaps not,” retorted the other, significantly. “It is a lingering
disease, and you may yet get to Mekran in time.”
“In time? In time for what?” asked Kasam.
“To strike!”
Kasam stared at him. The tall Baluch smiled and shook the rein over his
horse’s ears.
“I am of the tribe of Raab, my prince. May Allah guide you to success.”
Kasam did not reply. His head rested against the arched neck of his
horse, and his form shook with a slight nervous tremor. But next moment
he stood erect. The dazed look inspired by the bitter news he had heard
was giving way to his old eager, cheery expression.
“All is not lost!” he said, speaking aloud. “Fate knocks, and I will
throw open the door. Allah grant that Burah Khan lives until I reach
Mekran!”
He sprang to the saddle, put spurs to his steed and dashed away at full
speed into the desert.
“I hope,” said the Colonel, looking after him anxiously, “that nothing
has gone wrong.”
CHAPTER III
THE PERSIAN PHYSICIAN
Burah Khan, known as the Lion of Mekran, Headsman of the Nine Tribes of
Baluchi and Defender of the Faith, was, without doubt, a very sick man.
He lay upon a divan in the courtyard of his palace, propped with silken
cushions redolent of the odors of musk. The waters of the fountain that
splashed at his side were also scented with musk, and the heavy and
stifling perfume permeated the entire atmosphere of the court. At the
head of the divan sat a girl, indolently waving a fan above the head of
the Khan. Not far from his feet a white-bearded man squatted upon a rug
and eyed the sick one with curious intentness. This was Agahr, the
vizier. Behind him sat a group of officers and sirdars, silently
watching the scene.
Burah Khan, despite his sad condition, was fully clothed in his
customary regalia. He wore a waistcoat of dingy white plush upon which
were sewn enough rubies to have ransomed a kingdom. His yellow satin
trousers were soiled and crumpled. The long outer robe was of faded
rose-color and had nine stars, formed of clustered diamonds, down the
front. The deep collar was stiff with masses of the same precious gems.
The entire dress seemed as tawdry as a circus costume at the end of the
season; but it was of enormous value, and the Khan, with oriental love
of magnificence, clung to it even as he lay upon his death-bed.
He was a notable character, this Burah Khan, son of the terrible Keedar
Khan who had conquered all of Baluchistan and ruled it with a rod of
iron. Burah had inherited with the throne the fierce hatred with which
his father was ever regarded; yet he had not only held every province
secure, but had won the respect and fear of all his people. The thirty
years of his rule had not been void of wars and bloodshed, yet at the
head of his nine Baluch tribes the Khan had swept aside all opposition
and won for himself the title of “The Lion of Mekran,” Mekran being his
dwelling-place when not in the saddle.
Today, gaunt and haggard, he lay gasping upon his divan. His fingers
opened and closed convulsively in the meshes of his iron-gray beard; his
drooping eyelids were sunk in deep sockets. The pallor of death showed
through his swarthy skin. To Agahr and the silent group behind him it
seemed that the Khan was conquered at last.
The sick one moved restlessly and raised his hand.
“Has--has--he come?” he asked, speaking the words with much difficulty.
Agahr leaned forward, without rising, and answered his master with
composure:
“Not yet, lord.”
It was a question often repeated and as often answered with the same
words.
A moan came from the Khan. The vizier noted the patient’s restlessness
and made a sign with his hand. At once the curtains of the rear entrance
were swept aside and a troop of girls entered. They were robed in
white; vines of the mountain iral were twined in their hair; in their
hands were bellalas. The girls danced. A tall Arab with immense hoops of
gold in his ears beat a tambo to mark the time, and the bellalas chimed
a tinkling chorus.
The eyes of the Khan never opened, but he made an impatient gesture and
moaned again. The intent Agahr noted this and at his command the noise
of the tambo ceased and the girls withdrew. Evidently the Khan could no
longer be amused in this fashion.
For a brief space of time the courtyard again became silent. Then, so
suddenly that a thrill crept over the watchers, a tall imposing figure
glided to the side of the divan and cast a shadow over the face of the
sick man.
Burah Khan moved, opened his eyes and fixed his gaze eagerly upon the
new arrival. The vizier arose quickly and approached the couch, bowing
low and looking into the calm countenance of the stranger with
undisguised anxiety. The group of minor officials also looked their
interest, and the girl forgot to wave her fan while she examined the
person of the man so long awaited.
“The great physician is here, my master,” whispered the vizier. But
Burah Khan did not heed him. An expression of relief had come to his
pinched features, and his eyes were fixed earnestly upon the face bent
above him, as if he would read his fate in the countenance of the famous
Persian who had been brought all the way from Kelat to minister to his
imperative needs.
The physician raised the sick man’s eyelids and glanced beneath them. He
placed his right hand under the Khan’s head and at the same time pressed
an ear to his chest. It seemed enough. He stood erect, with folded arms,
bending a searching yet kindly gaze upon the face upturned to his.
“Tell me!” pleaded the Khan, feebly.
The Persian gave a quick glance around. Then he answered:
“They listen.”
“Let them hear,” said the Khan, raising himself with an effort upon his
elbow. “They--are all--friends.”
A queer look came over the stranger’s face. But he said, in a calm
voice:
“The sickness is fatal. You will die.”
For a moment the Lion of Mekran returned the other’s gaze steadily. Then
he lay back upon his pillows and sighed.
Agahr, who eyed his master as if fascinated, heaved an echoing sigh, and
the group of officials exchanged looks of consternation.
“When?” asked the Khan, his voice now strong and clear, his eyes on the
impassive face before him.
“A day--an hour,” replied the Persian, slowly. “It is Death’s secret.”
For a few moments the silence was unbroken save for the splash of the
fountain as its perfumed spray fell into the marble basin. Then the Khan
again aroused himself.
“Can you hold Death at bay--for a time?” he asked.
“How long?”
“Speak, Agahr!” turning to his vizier. “How long to get my son here--to
assemble the Sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”
Agahr was trembling visibly. He clasped and unclasped his thin hands
nervously and glanced first at his master and then at the physician.
“Speak!” said the latter, sternly.
“To the monastery of Takkatu is three days’ journey--three days, at
least,” he said, hesitatingly. “And for Prince Ahmed to return will
require three more. Seven days--a week--with fast riding.”
“Then,” said the Khan, calmly, “they must ride fast.” He turned to the
Persian. “Can you fight Death so long?”
The Persian nodded. The pluck of Burah Khan aroused his admiration.
“I will fight Death so long,” said he, gravely.
“And the sirdars?” asked the sick man, once more turning to his vizier.
“They can be assembled in five days,” answered Agahr, after a moment’s
reflection. “Three are already here.”
“Good!” declared the Khan. “Let Dirrag ride within the hour.”
“For the sirdars?”
“For Ahmed.”
He fell back again, and a man rose from the group behind Agahr and with
an obeisance toward the divan glided swiftly from the courtyard.
The physician, noting the action, turned to the vizier.
“Dirrag?” he enquired.
“Dirrag,” responded the other, mechanically.
The Persian gave his patient a sharp scrutiny, and drawing a phial from
his bosom placed it to the now colorless lips of the Khan.
“Clear the place,” he commanded Agahr, and without awaiting a response
himself stepped quickly through the outer arch.
Outside Dirrag was mounting a strong Arabian mare. The Persian arrested
him with a gesture.
“The Prince must be here in six days,” he said, in a low but commanding
voice. “Six days, or--”
“I understand,” said Dirrag, and put spurs to the mare.
CHAPTER IV
THE DAUGHTER OF THE VIZIER
Upon a stone gallery overlooking the courtyard of a handsome dwelling
not far from the palace of the khan reclined a girl, beautiful with that
mysterious Eastern beauty that has been for ages the despair of poets
and artists and which attains its full charm only in the Orient. She was
scarcely seventeen years of age, yet her rounded outlines, her graceful
poise, her sedate demeanor, all proclaimed her a maiden on the verge of
womanhood. Her eyes, round and soft as those of a fawn, were absolutely
inscrutable; her features in repose held the immutable expression of the
Sphynx. When she smiled sunbeams danced in her eyes and a girlish dimple
showed in her chin. But she rarely smiled. The composed, serious,
languorous expression dominated her exquisite face.
The girl was richly dressed. Her silken gown was of finest texture;
pearls of rare size were twined in her dark hair; a golden serpent whose
every scale was a lustrous diamond spanned her waist; upon her breast
glittered a solitary blood-red ruby of historic fame, known in song and
story for generations.
For this maiden was Maie, only daughter of Agahr, Grand Vizier to the
Lion of Mekran and to his father before him--the terrible Keedar Khan.
Next to Burah himself in rank, virtually directing all the civic affairs
of the nation, responsible to none save his stern master, Agahr was
indeed a personage of vast importance in the realm. The sirdars of the
nine fighting tribes of Baluchi, the main support of the Khan, might
look upon the vizier scornfully; but they obeyed his laws and avoided
any interference with his civic functions.
Maie was the daughter of Agahr’s old age, his only companion and his
constant delight. To her he confided many of the problems that from time
to time confronted him, and often a quiet word from the girl’s lips
showed him the matter in a new light and guided him in his actions. The
old man had discovered a store of common sense in the dainty head of his
daughter; the inscrutable velvet eyes were wells of wisdom from which he
drew solace and counsel in all difficulties.
On the evening of this eventful day came Agahr to the gallery where his
daughter reclined. And as he sat beside her she turned her eyes upon his
face and seemed to read it clearly.
“The Khan is worse,” said she, quietly.
“He is dying,” answered the vizier. “The Persian physician has come from
Kelat, and he says there is no hope.”
“We shall be making history soon,” remarked the girl, in soft tones.
“The Khan will pass away, and Kasam is here.”
The vizier moved uneasily on his seat.
“Kasam is here; yes,” said he. “But no one knows the secret save us. No
one knows who our Kasam is.”
“They will know soon,” returned the girl in a calm, expressionless
voice. “Our cousin Kasam is rightful heir to the throne--when the
Lion’s eyes are closed in death.”
“You forget that Burah Khan has also a son,” said the old man, harshly.
“Even now Dirrag is riding full speed to the Sunnite monastery at
Takkatu to bring hither the Prince Ahmed.”
“That he may be acknowledged successor to the throne by the assembled
sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”
“Yes.”
“But the Khan is dying. The Prince cannot arrive in time.”
“Perhaps not. Yet that accursed Persian has promised to prolong the
Khan’s life for seven days. If he succeeds--”
The girl bent forward suddenly.
“He must not succeed!” she exclaimed, in a clear voice.
Agahr shrank from the intentness of her gaze.
“Hear me!” she continued. “Kasam is our kinsman; the throne is his by
right. Most of our citizens and many of the members of the Nine Tribes
secretly favor his claim. A crisis approaches, and we must take
advantage of it. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days. If his son
Ahmed, who has been secluded for twenty years in a monastery, and is
said to be devoted to Allah, is not here to be recognized as the
successor to the throne, the people will acclaim Kasam their khan. It is
all very simple, my father. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven
days!”
“What, plotting again, cousin?” cried a cheery voice behind them. Agahr
gave a sudden start and wheeled around with a frown, meeting the smiling
face of Prince Kasam, but the girl moved not even an eyelid.
“Pardon me, uncle, for startling you,” said the young man, coming
forward and taking a seat beside the vizier. “I arrived in time to hear
cousin Maie doom Burah Kahn to an early death, as if the dark angel
fought on our side. What a wonderful little conspirator you are, my
Maie!”
She looked into his face thoughtfully not caring to acknowledge the
compliment of his words or the ardor of his gaze. But Agahr said,
gruffly:
“The conspiracies of women cost many men their heads.”
“Very true, uncle,” replied Kasam, becoming grave. “But we are in sore
straights, and a little plotting may not come amiss. If the son of the
old Lion--who, by the way, is also my cousin--is acknowledged by the
sirdars, he is liable to make a change in his officers. We may lose our
vizier, and with the office more than half our power with the people. In
that event I can never become kahn.”
“The son of Burah must be a weakling and a dreamer,” said the girl,
thoughtfully. “What can be expected of one who for twenty years has
associated with monks and priests?”
“Twenty years?” exclaimed Kasam; “then my cousin Ahmed must be nearly
thirty years of age.”
“And a recluse,” added Maie, quietly. “You, Prince, are not yet
twenty-five, and you have lived in the world. We need not, I am sure,
fear the gentle son of Burah--even though he be acknowledged by his
father and the sirdars of the tribes.”
“Which will surely happen if the Khan lives seven days. Is it not so?
But if Allah calls him sooner, and my friends are loyal--why, then, I
may become khan myself, and much trouble spared. The English have an
injunction to ‘strike while the iron is hot.’ We may safely apply it to
ourselves.”
Maie glanced at her father, and there was a glint of triumph in the dark
eyes.
“It is what I have said,” she murmured. “The Lion of Mekran must not
live seven days.”
“Do you know, fair one,” remarked Kasam, lightly, “that only yesterday I
bewailed the approaching fate of the usurper, and longed to have him
live until we could secure England’s support?”
“England!” she cried, scornfully. “What is that far-away nation to our
Baluchistan? It is _here_ that history will be made.”
Kasam laughed merrily.
“What a logical little head you have, cousin!” he answered, laying his
hand upon her own, caressingly. “To us, indeed, Baluchistan is the
world. And England’s help is far away from us in this crisis. Tell me,
Maie, what is your counsel?”
“It is your duty, Prince, to prevent Burah Khan from living until his
son arrives to be acknowledged his successor.”
Kasam’s face became suddenly grave.
“_My_ duty, cousin?” he replied. “It is no man’s duty to murder, even to
become khan. But perhaps I misunderstood your words. I am practically a
stranger in my own land, and can do little to further my own interests,
which naturally include the interests of my friends. If Burah Khan fails
to live until his son’s arrival it will be through the will of Allah,
and by no act of mine.”
“You are a coward,” said the girl, scornfully.
“Yes,” he answered, coldly; “I am afraid to become a murderer.”
“Peace, both of you!” commanded the vizier, angrily. “You are like a
pair of children. Do you think that I, who have been Burah’s faithful
officer for thirty years, would countenance treachery or foul play while
he lies upon his death-bed? I long to see Prince Kasam seated upon the
throne, but it must be through honest diplomacy, and by no assassin’s
stroke.”
“Right, my uncle!” cried Kasam, seizing the vizier’s hand in a hearty
clasp. “Otherwise, were I khan, you should be no officer of mine.”
Agahr and his daughter exchanged a quick glance, and the girl said,
languidly:
“I was doubtless wrong, urged on by the intensity of my feeling and my
loyalty to the Tribe of Raab. But a woman’s way is, I think, more direct
and effective than a man’s.”
“Even if less honest, cousin?” retorted the young man, playfully
pinching her cheek. “Let us bide our time and trust to the will of
Allah. This evening I must set out on my return to Quanam. What answer
shall I take to my foreign friends who await me?”
“Tell me, Kasam; why do they wish to cross our territory--to visit our
villages and spy upon our people?” asked Agahr suspiciously.
“It is as I told you, my uncle. They are people of great wealth, from
the far western country of America, and it is their custom to penetrate
to every part of the world and lay rails of iron over which chariots may
swiftly speed. We have no such rails in Baluchistan.”
“Nor do we desire them,” returned the vizier, brusquely.
“But they would bring to us all the merchandise of that wonderful
western world. They would bring us wealth in exchange for our own
products,” said Kasam, eagerly.
“And they would bring hundreds of infidels to trick and rob us. I know
of these railways,” declared the vizier.
“I also,” answered Kasam, lightly. “I have been educated in Europe, and
know well the benefits of western civilization.”
“But the Baluchi do not. Our own high and advanced civilization is
enough for us.”
The young man smiled.
“It is not worth an argument now,” he remarked. “The present mission of
this party of infidels is to examine our country and consider whether a
railway across it would be profitable. All that I now require is a
passport and safe conduct for them. It will benefit our cause, as well,
for only as the guide to these foreigners dared I return to my native
land. If I am permitted to depart tonight with the passport I can easily
return in time for the crisis that approaches. Then perhaps our American
friends will be of service to us, for no one will suspect their guide of
being the exiled heir to the throne.”
The vizier hesitated.
“But the railway--”
“Bother the railway!” interrupted Kasam, impatiently. “That is a matter
of the future, a matter for the new khan and his vizier to decide upon,
whoever they may chance to be.”
“Here is the passport,” said Agahr, reluctantly drawing a parchment from
his breast. “Burah Khan was too sick to be bothered with the request of
the infidels, so I made out the paper and signed it by virtue of my
office.”
“Ah, and affixed the great seal, I perceive,” added Kasam, taking the
document. “I thank you, uncle Agahr. We shall get along famously
together--when I am khan.”
He bade them adieu the next moment, embracing the vizier and kissing his
cousin’s hand with a gallantry that brought a slight flush to the girl’s
cheeks. And soon they heard the quick beat of his horse’s hoofs as he
rode away.
Maie and her father looked into each other’s eyes. Presently the old man
spoke, slowly and thoughtfully.
“You will share his throne, my child.”
The girl nodded and fanned herself.
“The life in Europe has made Kasam foolish,” said she. Then, leaning
forward and regarding the vizier earnestly, she added in a whisper:
“Nevertheless, Burah Khan must not live seven days!”
CHAPTER V
THE PERIL OF BURAH KHAN
Three days had passed. The khan remained sunk in a stupor caused by the
medicines administered by the Persian physician, who hovered constantly
around the bedside of his patient. Burah now lay in a well aired, high
vaulted chamber. The musk-scented cushions had been ostracised, the
dancing girls dismissed. Quiet reigned throughout the vast palace.
Occasionally Agahr would thrust his head through the curtains draping
the entrance, as if seeking to know that all was well; but the Persian
merely gave him a reassuring nod and motioned him away.
This summary banishment did not please the vizier. His daughter had
assisted him in forming several plans of great political import, and the
conduct of the foreign physician prevented their being carried to a
successful issue.
Thus Agahr, appearing again at the entrance, beckoned with imperative
gesture the Persian to join him; and, after a careful inspection of his
patient, lying peaceful and unconscious, the physician obeyed.
Together they paced up and down the deserted marble passage, the
Persian’s quick eye never leaving the entrance to the khan’s chamber,
while Agahr plied him with eager questions concerning his master’s
condition.
“He will live until his son, the Prince Ahmed, arrives,” said the other,
calmly. “He will remain unconscious, but he will live.”
“And then?” asked the vizier, anxiously.
“Then I will awaken him. He will have full command of all his faculties
for a brief period--and then he will pass away quickly.”
Agahr sighed.
“Is it not possible for him to pass away during this stupor?” he
enquired.
“Yes, it is possible,” answered the Persian. “But I believe I can
prevent that. My task requires constant vigilance: that is why I dare
not leave the Khan’s chamber.”
“I will send a man to relieve you,” said the vizier. “You can instruct
him in his duties and he will be faithful.”
“No,” returned the Persian.
An awkward silence followed. Then Agahr stopped suddenly and said:
“I will be frank with you. The son of Burah Khan is not the rightful
heir to the throne of Mekran. It is the exiled Prince Kasam, from whose
grandsire Keedar Khan by right of sword wrested all Baluchistan.
Therefore it is best for the country that Burah does not live until his
son arrives.”
He paused, wiping the perspiration from his brow and glancing half
fearfully into the grave face of the physician. The latter nodded.
“I understand,” said he.
Agahr became reassured.
“The ancestors of Prince Kasam,” he continued, earnestly, “ruled the
land for nine generations. Then the Baluchi rebelled and put their
Headsman, the fierce Keedar Khan, upon the throne his own brother was
forced to vacate. I being at the time vizier, remained Keedar’s vizier,
as I have remained vizier to his son. By means of wars and bloodshed
these terrible men have for forty-six years dominated all Baluchistan.
It is now time, in the interest of justice and humanity, that the
rightful heir should recover the throne.”
“Did not Prince Kasam’s ancestors conquer this country with the aid of
the Afghans, and put to death every member of the then reigning family?”
asked the Persian.
“It is a matter of history,” said Agahr, proudly. “They were my
ancestors, these bold conquerors, as well as the ancestors of Prince
Kasam.”
“Yet Keedar Khan made you his vizier, and his son retained you?”
“Yes; and I have been faithful.”
“But now, it seems to me, you are speaking treason,” said the physician.
“Not so,” declared the vizier, indignantly. “Burah Khan, by your own
showing, is virtually dead at this moment. I owe no allegiance to his
son, whom I have never seen.”
“How is that?” asked the physician, in surprise.
“When Ahmed was a child his father, fearing a revolt and that his boy
might fall by an assassin’s knife, placed him in the Sunnite monastery
at Takkatu for safe keeping. There he has remained ever since. It will
be necessary for Burah Khan to officially acknowledge him before the
chiefs of the Nine Tribes and to appoint him his own successor, before
Ahmed can legally occupy the throne. If this is not done the people, who
are weary of the rule of these tyrants, will acclaim Kasam as khan.”
“But Prince Ahmed will arrive, and be acknowledged. Burah Khan has so
willed it, and he is still the master.”
Agahr faced the Persian with an angry frown.
“Do you refuse to assist us?” he asked, sharply.
“I refuse to betray the man whose life I have promised to preserve
until his son arrives,” declared the physician.
“But you are a stranger--a Persian.”
“Even so.”
“And you expect a reward, or you would not have hastened to Mekran when
summoned by the Khan. Name your price. I will double it, and you shall
depart this very night.”
The Persian smiled.
“Here, and throughout the world,” said he, “the strongest argument is
the clink of gold. Listen well, your Excellency. I have promised Burah
Khan life for seven days. I shall keep my promise. Then, if the Prince
does not come, I can do no more.”
The vizier started.
“If the Prince does not come?” he repeated, thoughtfully.
“To be sure.”
“Ah! I had not thought of that!” exclaimed the old man.
“It is the only thing I fear,” said the other, with exasperating
coolness; “but I rely upon Dirrag. If you are able to delay him you
will doubtless win the throne for Prince Kasam.”
Before the mocking tones had died away the physician disappeared behind
the draperies of the khan’s chamber, and the vizier, controlling his
anger and chagrin as best he might, walked away to concoct further
plans.
The woman who brought the Persian his evening meal became confused under
his sharp scrutiny and started to retire hurriedly. He arrested her with
a stern command, saying:
“Sit here and taste of the dish you have brought.”
Then she began to tremble.
“Master, I dare not!” she wailed.
“Very well. Take away this food and bring me eggs boiled in the shell.”
The physician was bending over the couch of the khan when one of the
under cooks entered silently with the eggs. The man was of the Brahoe
caste, small and wiry. He placed the eggs upon the table and eyed for a
time the back of the tall Persian, who seemed intent upon his patient.
But a moment later he suddenly straightened, threw back his hand and
caught the wrist of the Brahoe in a firm grasp.
A dagger fell upon the rug, and the man shrank back shuddering before
the gleaming eyes of the physician.
An instant they remained motionless. Then, releasing his prisoner, the
physician picked up the dagger, placed it within his own bosom and
seated himself quietly at the table. One of the eggs he cast aside;
there was a tiny pin-hole through the shell. The others he ate with his
usual composure. As he raised a cup of water to his lips the Brahoe, who
had watched him with amazement, suddenly stretched out his hand in
warning.
“Wait! it is poisoned,” he whispered. “I will bring you more.”
Swiftly he glided away and presently returned with a fresh bowl of clear
water.
The physician drank without hesitation.
“You may go,” said he, setting down the bowl.
“Master,” said the man, “be warned. You are surrounded by dangers. But
you are brave, and I am your servant henceforth. Eat hereafter only the
food I bring you.”
The Persian nodded and gave the Brahoe a smile. Still the man hesitated,
peering cautiously about as if suspecting listeners. Finally he came
nearer and said in a low voice:
“I do not know all; your foes are cunning and powerful. But the old khan
is not to live the seven days. And life is lightly esteemed in
Mekran--if it stands in the way of a purpose. Do not sleep tonight.”
“I never sleep,” returned the Persian, looking upon the man curiously.
Indeed, the critical condition of Burah Khan seemed to require his
constant attention. The strange physician watched the silent form
carefully throughout the night, and only once noted a slight movement of
the draperies that guarded the entrance to the chamber.
At daybreak he drew the curtains of the windows to let in the light, and
turned about in time to dash his heel upon the head of a small but
venomous serpent that was poised to strike him with its fangs. Some one
had placed it in the room during the night--a messenger of death to
either the Khan or his physician, it mattered little which.
The Persian stared at the writhing snake a moment and made a gesture of
impatience.
“It is only the fourth day,” he muttered. “I wonder where Dirrag is.”
An hour later the woman brought in his breakfast.
“Where is the Brahoe?” he demanded, sharply.
“He was found dead this morning,” said the woman, shuddering. “Some
enemy, it seems, strangled him while he slept.”
The frown upon the Persian’s brow was so fierce that the woman slipped
away in terror.
“It is only the fourth day,” he growled again, between set teeth; “but
the Khan shall live until the seventh day--unless Dirrag comes before. I
have sworn it, and, by Allah, I will keep my oath!”
CHAPTER VI
THE MAN OF DESTINY
A young man paced with nervous strides an open gallery of the ancient
monastery of Mehmet, set high upon the mountain peak of Takkatu. He was
tall and slender, his face worn thin by fasting and endless vigils, his
shoulders stooping, his hands so emaciated that the fingers resembled
eagles’ talons. His forehead was high and protruding; his eyes bright
and glistening; but the lower part of his face, from the small, delicate
nose to the receding chin, indicated a weak and vacillating character.
Prone upon a narrow divan against the wall reclined another man, also
young but of stalwart, rugged frame and with calm and well-fashioned
features. His pose was absolutely without motion: not even a muscle
twitched. The dark lashes lay over his closed eyes without a tremor.
Both wore the loose yellow gowns and high turbans of the Sunnite
novitiates, but the one who paced the marble tiles had a band of white
around his flowing sleeve--an indication of his superior degree.
Through the open peristyle came spicy breezes from near-by Araby. The
sun cast intense shadows; a mighty stillness enveloped the monastery, as
if the world slept.
The two novitiates were not alone. On a stone bench near the outer
arches was seated an aged priest, clothed all in pure white, whose set
face and hard, unseeing eyes indicated him wholly oblivious of his
surroundings. Neither the young men seemed to consider his presence,
although from time to time the nervous pacer would cast a swift glance
in his direction.
Suddenly the latter paused before the divan.
“Give me your counsel, Hafiz!” said he, addressing the prostrate form.
“Tell me what I must do.”
The man upon the divan moved and sat up, regarding the other gravely
with clear grey eyes.
“Well?” said he.
“Must I submit to it?” asked the other, eagerly. “Has my father the
right to make this unreasonable, unjust, shameful demand?”
Hafiz nodded.
“After all these years of study and research,” continued the slender
brother, with a passionate gesture, “after a life devoted to religious
concentration, to the worship of Allah and His divine manifestations on
earth; after delving far into the inner mysteries of the Faith and
seeing the day approach when I shall become of the Imaum--after this
holy life in this holy temple must I be dragged into the coarse,
material world again? Bah! it is outrageous--impossible!”
“Yet imperative,” added the man on the divan.
His companion had resumed his agitated walk, but suddenly paused again
and cast a frightened look at the placid countenance turned upon him.
Then the frown faded from his own brow; his eyes softened and he said,
gently:
“Forgive me, dear Hafiz! I am beside myself with grief. Tell me what I
must do!”
“They have sent for you?” asked Hafiz.
“Yes. My father, the Khan, who has forgotten me since I came here, a
little child, is now dying, and he commands my presence that I may
succeed him as ruler of the tribes of Mekran.”
“Have you known e’er this that you were Prince of Mekran?”
“Not till this hour, when our beloved mufti revealed to me the tidings.”
“But _he_ knew it?” said Hafiz, with a glance toward the entranced
priest by the arch.
“Yes; he knew it, but preserved the knowledge. It seems there was reason
for this. My father’s house has powerful enemies, who would gladly have
murdered his heir in childhood. So that no one but the Khan and his
trusted vizier knew where I have been hidden all these years. And I--I
have grown to manhood with the belief that I might devote my life to
religion; yet now, when my soul craves peace and that exaltation which
is accorded only to Allah’s chosen servants, I am rudely summoned to a
life of worldly turmoil, to take part in endless political intrigues and
brutal warfares--all of which my spirit loathes.”
“‘Tis fate, Ahmed,” said the other, thoughtfully, “and to be borne with
the resignation our creed teaches. You are of royal birth, of an ancient
line of heaven-born rulers, and you must fulfill your destiny.”
“Ah, now you have given me my argument,” retorted Ahmed, with a quick
smile. “I am not of an ancient line of heaven-born rulers. We are
usurpers.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. My grandfather, according to the tale I have just heard, was a
younger brother of the reigning khan, whom he ruthlessly slew and
supplanted. By terrible and bloody wars my grandsire Keedar conquered
the tribes that were faithful to his brother’s son, and forced them to
acknowledge and obey him. A fierce man was Keedar Khan, and always more
hated than loved. But before he died all Baluchistan rendered him
homage, and his son, my father, proved as stern and warlike as his sire.
For thirty years he has ruled with an iron hand, and is today known to
the world as the Lion of Mekran.”
“Yet he is dying?”
“He is dying; and he sends for me, his only child, that I may be
acknowledged his successor before the assembled sirdars of the nation.”
“You must go.”
“Think what that means!”
“You will be khan.”
“Ruler of a nation of disaffected tribes, half of whom are eager to
return to the allegiance of their rightful sovereign and who have only
been held in subjection through two generations by the might of an iron
will and the right of a gleaming sword.”
“Who is this rightful sovereign you mention?”
“My cousin Kasam, whom I have never heard of until this day. He has
been educated in foreign lands, I am told, to guard him from my
father--as I have been reared in this holy place to prevent my being
killed by the enemies of our house.”
“And you would reject a throne--a throne bequeathed you by a warrior
sire--because there is a pretender to the place?” asked Hafiz, with calm
features but sparkling eyes. “It was by the sword the first royal family
reigned in Mekran; it is by the sword your family reigns. Your duty is
to your own kin. Let your strong arm maintain the power your ancestors
have won and established!”
Ahmed shrank from the flashing eyes of his friend and spread out his
palms with a deprecating gesture.
“I am no warrior, Hafiz. I am an humble servant of Allah. In a month I
shall be Imaum!”
Hafiz gazed upon the slender, shrinking form of the heir of Mekran with
earnestness. Truly it seemed unwise to urge the gentle devotee to
abandon the monastery for the intrigue of a palace. He sighed, this
stalwart, broad-shouldered monk of Takkatu, and reclined anew upon the
divan.
“I wish,” he said, regretfully, “I had been born the son of your
father.”
For a time Ahmed resumed his fretful pacing of the gallery, and no sound
but his footsteps fell upon the ears of the three. The aged priest still
sat, immobile, at his post, and the tall monk reclined as motionless
upon his divan.
At times Ahmed would pause and wring his thin hands, murmuring: “I
cannot! I cannot leave this holy place. In a month I shall be Imaum--a
chosen comrade of the Prophet!”
A bell, low-toned and sweet, chimed from a neighboring spire. At the
summons the priest stirred and turned himself to the east, the
involuntary action being imitated by the younger men. Then all three
cast themselves prone upon the marble floor, while a distant voice came
softly but clearly to their ears, chanting the words: “_Allah is great.
There no god but Allah. Come ye to prayer. Come ye to security!_”
As the tones faded away Ahmed groaned, repeating the words: “Security!
come ye to security! O Allah, help me!”
But the others remained silent and motionless for a protracted time, and
even Ahmed ceased his muttering and succumbed to the impressiveness of
the mid-day prayer.
Finally the priest arose and made a sign.
“Retire, my son,” said he to Ahmed, “and compose thy soul to peace.
Allah has shown me the way.”
The young man gave a start, his features suffused with a glow of
delight, his eyes sparkling joyfully. Then he bowed low before the mufti
and left the gallery with steady steps.
Hafiz remained, curiously regarding the aged priest, whose lean face now
wore a look of keen intelligence. He came close to the stalwart
novitiate and fixed upon him a piercing gaze.
“Allah is above all,” he said, “and Mahomet is the Prophet of Allah.
Next to them stands the Khan--the Protector of the Faith.”
“It is true,” answered Hafiz.
“Prince Kasam has been educated in London. His faith, be he still true
to Mahomet, is lax. For the glory of Allah and the protection of our
order, a true believer must rule at Mekran. The son of Burah Khan must
sit in his father’s place.”
“It is true,” said Hafiz, again.
“Yet our beloved brother, Ahmed, is about to become of the Imaum. His
soul is with Allah. His hand is not fitted to grasp the sword. Shall we
rob the Faith of its most earnest devotee?”
The calm grey eyes and the glittering black ones met, and a wave of
intelligence vibrated between them.
Hafiz made no reply in words, and the priest paused in deep thought. At
length he continued.
“For seven years, my brother, you have been one of us, and we have
learned to love you. You came among us fresh from a life tragedy. You
suffered. Allah comforted you, and within our walls you found peace. The
sun and wind kissed your cheeks and turned them brown; your strength
increased. The purity of your soul was grateful to the Prophet, and he
granted you knowledge and understanding. But you were not destined to
become a priest, my Hafiz. Allah has chosen you for a more worldly life,
wherein you may yet render Him service by becoming a bulwark of the
Faith!”
A smile softened the stern chin of the novitiate and lent his face a
rare sweetness.
“I understand, O Mufti,” he answered; but there was a thrill in his
voice he could not repress.
The priest clapped his hands and an attendant entered.
“Send to me Dirrag the messenger,” he commanded.
No word was spoken on the gallery until the son of Ugg appeared.
Dirrag was still white with the dust of his swift ride across the
desert. He came in with a swinging stride, glanced with a momentary
hesitation from one to the other of the two men, and then knelt humbly
before Hafiz.
“My lord,” said he, “your father commands your presence in Mekran. We
must ride fast if you are to find him still alive.”
“In an hour,” answered the priest, calmly, “Prince Ahmed will be in the
saddle. I commend to your wisdom and loyalty, good Dirrag, the safety of
the heir to the throne of Mekran.”
CHAPTER VII
DIRRAG
When Burah Khan picked Dirrag of the tribe of Ugg as his messenger to
the monastery of Takkatu, he knew his man.
Dirrag was brother to the sirdar of his tribe, and the tribe of Ugg was
Burah Khan’s tribe, prominent above all others for having furnished two
great rulers to the nation: Keedar the Great and his warrior son the
Lion of Mekran. Well might the tribe of Ugg be proud, and well might
Dirrag be faithful to his own kin.
The messenger was thin and wiry; he was not a tall man, but neither was
Burah Khan, for that matter. Dirrag wore a black, thick beard that
covered nearly his entire face. His eyes, as they glinted through the
thicket of whisker, were keen as a ferret’s. One of his ears had been
sliced away by a cimeter; his left hand had but one finger and the
thumb remaining; his body was seared with scars on almost every inch of
its compact surface. Dirrag was no longer ornamental--if he had ever
possessed that quality--but he was an exceedingly useful man in a
skirmish and had fought for years beside Burah himself. They knew each
other.
When Dirrag mounted his mare at the castle gates he did not hesitate as
to his direction, but sped away toward the mountains. An ordinary
messenger would have headed due east, so as to pass around the mountain
range and reach by easy ascent the height of Takkatu. But the strange
physician had told him Prince Ahmed must be at his father’s side in six
days, and Dirrag had looked into the man’s eyes. He knew that much
depended upon his promptness in fulfilling his mission, and so he rode,
straight as the bird flies, toward Mount Takkatu.
And he rode swiftly, hour after hour, till shadows crept over the land
and night fell. He dipped the mare’s nose into two streams between then
and daybreak, but paused only during those moments. At sunrise he
dashed up to an enclosure, drew the bridle from his panting mare, threw
it over the head of a snow-white stallion corralled near by, sprang
astride the fresh animal and was off like the wind.
A Baluch came from a stone hut, watched the cloud of dust that marked
Dirrag’s flight and then calmly proceeded to tend and groom the weary
mare the messenger had discarded.
“Oh, ho!” he muttered, “old Burah has the death-sickness at last, and
the young prince is sent for. May Allah rest my master’s black and
scoundrelly soul!”
He had tended the relay for years, waiting for this hour.
Dirrag reached the monastery in the middle of the third day after
leaving Mekran. He was obliged to curb his impatience for four tedious
hours before the return journey could be begun. But the messenger was
well ahead of his time, and provided Prince Ahmed proved a good rider
would see Mekran again before the six days allotted him had sped.
There were good horses at the ancient monastery of Mehmet. No more
famous stable existed in all Baluchistan. Dirrag glanced with pride at
their mounts as he rode away beside his kinsman the prince. Also he
noted with satisfaction the firm and graceful seat of his companion and
his evident mastery of the splendid bay stallion he bestrode.
Therefore the warrior smiled grimly and tossed his head.
“Six days!” he muttered. “It is too many by one.”
A long, swift stride the slender bays struck, and they maintained it
hour after hour without seeming to tire. Dirrag was no chatterer, and
the son of the Lion of Mekran, whom the tribesman regarded admiringly
from time to time from the corner of his eye, seemed liable to prove
equally reticent.
The warrior had never seen his master’s son before, and had shared a
common misgiving with the Baluchi concerning the monastery-bred prince.
But his doubts were more than half relieved by his first view of the
athletic form and steady poise of his kinsman. If the priests had not
spoiled him-- But, there! time would show. At present it was enough that
the heir could ride.
Another day arrived before Dirrag was called upon to answer a single
question. In the cool hour just before the sun arose, as they slowly
rode up an incline, resting the horses for the long canter down hill,
the prince asked:
“In what condition did you leave Burah Khan?”
“Your father, my prince, was near his end,” he replied, slowly. “His
illness has been long and tedious, and the Persian physician who arrived
from Kelat gave him barely seven days to live. This is the fourth day.”
“And when shall we reach Mekran?”
“On the morning of the sixth day--with the blessing of Allah.”
The younger man pondered the matter long. Then he said:
“Who recommended the Persian? Were there no physicians in Mekran?”
“Burah beheaded his own physician three weeks ago. He has executed,
altogether, five men of medicine since this illness came upon him. The
others have fled or are in hiding. As for the Persian, I am told Agahr
the Vizier would have prevented his coming; but Melka of our tribe, who
rules the khan’s harem, rode fast to Kelat, and the Persian came.”
“Agahr. Is he not our cousin?”
“Your uncle, lord, thrice removed. He is own cousin to Kasam the
Pretender.”
Another period of silence, finally broken by questions as calmly and
indifferently put.
“This Kasam the Pretender. Is he popular in Mekran?”
“They do not know him, any more than they know yourself. He has lived in
a far country since boyhood, and is said to be still there.”
“But he has friends--partisans?”
Dirrag hitched uneasily in his seat.
“There are some, even yet, who deny the right of a son of Ugg to rule.
Old Keedar did not strike softly, and the sword of Burah was ever long
and sharp. You will have enemies, my master, when you are khan.”
“Open enemies?”
“And secret ones. The open enemies you need not fear.”
At noon they entered the Gedrusian Desert, the uplands being all behind
them.
There is little danger in this tract of waste land to those familiar
with it. Numerous pools and oases sustain the traveller of experience.
Dirrag knew every inch of the desert, and as their present route was
across but one corner of it he entered fearlessly.
Night had fallen and the moon and stars were out when they halted the
weary horses beside a pool. Ahmed dismounted and had knelt beside the
water to drink when Dirrag suddenly grasped his shoulder and threw him
forcibly backward. He arose slowly, rearranged his burnous and cast an
enquiring look at his companion.
“The pool is poisoned,” said Dirrag.
Bending over, he pointed to the bottom of the shallow water, where the
moon shone on several slender twigs that were covered with a pale green
bark.
“It is from the shushalla--the snake-tree,” he said, gruffly. “A drop of
this water will bring instant death. This is very annoying. Our pools
are never poisoned without a purpose, my master. Perhaps we are
watched.”
“I saw a rider against the horizon, as we came up,” replied Ahmed.
He stretched his muscular arms, yawned with weariness and lay down upon
the sand, instantly becoming motionless. It was a trick of relaxation he
had learned at the Sunnite monastery.
Dirrag looked at him approvingly. The novitiate Hafiz had cast aside his
yellow robes with his monastic name, and now wore the simple dress of a
Baluch tribesman, without ornament or jewel of any sort. The fold of his
turban, however, proclaimed him a member of the tribe of Ugg, and the
cimeter at his side--the gift of the wily priest of Mehmet--was a weapon
of rare quality, its hilt sparkling with clustered gems. Dirrag, when he
first saw it, had made humble obeisance to the cimeter.
The former recluse also bore a short spear, with the accompanying
shield of hammered bronze, and these completed his equipment.
Dirrag, wondering vaguely if his young master knew how to handle his
weapons, unsheathed his own blade and, squatting at the edge of the
pool, impaled the green twigs, one after another, upon its point and
drew them from the water. When all had been thus removed he buried the
deadly branches deep in the desert sands, and then reclined beside his
master. The horses sniffed eagerly at the pool, but would not drink
until they were given permission.
Silence fell upon the group. When three hours had passed Dirrag arose,
crept to the pool and dipped his finger in the water, tasting a drop
warily. Then he leaned over and drank, somewhat sparingly, and laid
himself down again, commending his soul to Allah.
In another hour he sprang up, alert and brisk, and touched Ahmed’s
shoulder.
“You may drink, master,” said he. “The pool is cleansed.”
Five minutes later, men and horses alike refreshed, they gallopped away
through the moonlight.
The fifth day dawned--the fifth according to Dirrag’s calendar, which
dated from the moment he had left Mekran. Ahmed had been in the saddle
thirty-six hours, with brief periods of rest. Dirrag, man of iron though
he was, began to show signs of fatigue. He was used to long riding, but
now his eyelashes seemed lead and every stroke of his horse’s hoofs
sounded in his ears like the beat of a drum.
Soon after the sun arose they discovered a group of horsemen far across
the desert, who seemed to be riding in the same direction they were. The
horsemen were mere specks upon the sands, at first, but as the hours
passed they grew larger.
“Travellers to Mekran,” remarked Dirrag, calmly. “The sirdars have been
assembled. Doubtless it is the party of some dignitary journeying to the
death-bed of Burah Khan.”
“How far distant is Mekran?” asked Ahmed.
“We shall reach it, Allah willing, by another daybreak,” replied the
warrior. “It will be the morning of the sixth day. The Persian gave me
full six days. I shall save twelve hours, and twelve hours to a dying
man is a long time.”
There was an accent of pride in his voice. Agahr had said the journey
would require seven days with fast riding. But Agahr was a townsman; how
should he know how fast the men of Ugg can ride?
The group of horsemen drew nearer. At noon Dirrag could see them almost
plainly enough to determine what tribe they belonged to--almost, but not
quite. Shortly afterwards, however, they whirled and rode directly
toward the two travellers, and then Dirrag straightened in his saddle,
cast the sleep from his eyes and gave a low growl.
“They are of the Tribe of Raab--a wild and rebellious band that hates
Burah and supports the cause of Kasam the Pretender.”
“Why are they here?” asked Ahmed.
“To prevent our reaching Mekran I suppose. They do not want the sirdars
and your father to publicly acknowledge you the successor to the
throne.”
“Well?”
“It was for the same reason the pool was poisoned. Treachery first; then
the sword. Can you fight, my prince?”
“I can try,” smiled Ahmed. “We are taught the arts of warfare in the
monastery.”
“You surprise me. I thought the priests passed their time in the worship
of Allah.”
“And in preparing to defend the Faith, good Dirrag. Yet I do not know
how well I can wield a cimeter in actual combat. Naked steel differs
from a wooden foil. And the men of Raab outnumber us.”
“There are a dozen of them, at least. But you and I are of the tribe of
Ugg. If we cannot win the fight we may at least honor our kinsmen by
taking three lives to our one.”
“It is worth the trial,” returned Ahmed, cheerfully, and he drew the
cimeter from its leathern sheath and eyed the blade curiously.
“The spear first, my lord,” said Dirrag. “After that the sword play.
These men of Raab are not skillful, but they are brave.” And he
proceeded to instruct Ahmed in the conduct of the coming encounter.
The horsemen were now so near that their shouts could be plainly heard.
They were racing on at full speed, waving their spears in the air as
they rode.
“See!” exclaimed Ahmed, after a glance over his shoulder. “We are being
surrounded.”
Dirrag looked and growled again; but there was a more cheerful note to
his voice this time.
“A caravan!” he exclaimed. “They are yet far off, but they have
dromedaries and are swiftly approaching. If we can escape the first
attack of the assassins we may be rescued yet.”
There was no time for further words. The fierce tribesmen of Raab were
quickly upon them, and by a concerted movement Ahmed and Dirrag whirled
their horses in opposite directions, separating as they dashed away over
the sands. This was intended to cause the band to divide, a part
following each fugitive. But, to Dirrag’s annoyance, only two came after
him, yelling and shaking their spears, indeed, but seeming not over
anxious to engage him in combat, so long as he did not rejoin Ahmed.
It was upon the young heir of Mekran that most of the Raabites hurled
themselves, circling around him at full gallop and watching a chance to
thrust a spear into his back.
Ahmed recognized his peril. He cast his spear at one assailant, cleft
another through turban and skull with his keen cimeter, and then, with a
word to the gallant bay of Mehmet, he raised the horse high in the air
and hurled it like a catapult at the foeman who chanced to be before
him.
Even at the moment of impact the glittering blade whistled again through
the air and the man of Raab sprawled with his horse in the desert sands,
while Ahmed’s steed broke through the circle of his foes and bounded
away to rejoin Dirrag, who was so lost in admiration of his young
master’s prowess that he hardly looked to defend himself from his own
assailants.
“Shall we fly?” asked Ahmed.
“It is useless,” panted Dirrag, ranging his horse beside that of his
master, so that it faced the opposite direction. “They can outrun us
easily, for our steeds are weary. But a few more strokes like those, my
prince, and the dogs will themselves take to their heels.”
There was no indication of this at present, however. Again the enemy
with fierce determination surrounded the two, and while each guarded the
other’s back they sat side by side and gave stroke for stroke with calm
precision.
“Hold!” cried an eager voice, sounding above the melee.
The men of Raab, as if fearful of being robbed of their prey, made a
sudden furious dash. At the same time a pistol shot rang out and the
leader tumbled from his saddle. The Raabites were demoralized, and fell
back. They had no fire-arms.
“Forbear, I command you!” said the same imperative voice. “I am Prince
Kasam.”
Yells of surprise and disappointment broke from the tribesmen. With a
sudden impulse they wheeled and galloped swiftly over the desert, while
the rescued men wearied and breathless, lowered their swords to gaze
around them in surprise.
The caravan had come upon them unawares. Twenty stout Afghans rode back
of the young prince who had interrupted the conflict, and behind these
stood dromedaries upon whose ample backs were perched ladies in European
dress and gentlemen composedly smoking cheroots.
“Well done, Kasam,” cried Colonel Moore, approvingly, and the ladies
waved their handkerchiefs.
Dirrag, who had dismounted to pull a spear-head from his horse’s flank,
scowled and shrank back so that the bay’s body partly hid him. Ahmed, at
the sound of English words, drew the folds of his burnous close about
his face, so that only the grey eyes were left revealed; but he sat his
horse quietly and gave the native salute.
“We thank Prince Kasam for our rescue,” he said in the native tongue.
Kasam flushed and laughed good-naturedly.
“Keep my secret, friend,” he returned. “I was, indeed, foolish to reveal
my station to that rabble yonder. But they are men of Raab, from which
tribe I am myself descended, and in the emergency it seemed the only way
to compel their obedience.”
The other bowed coldly and turned away to watch the Afghans rifling the
bodies of the fallen.
“Bury those fellows in the sand,” ordered Kasam, shivering as he looked
at the stark forms. “Were they not of my tribe they should feed the
jackals for so cowardly an attack. What was your quarrel, friend?”
turning again to Ahmed.
The latter made no reply, waving a hand toward Dirrag. Whereat the
warrior, despite his repugnance, forced himself to come forward and
answer for his silent chief.
“We are of the tribe of Ugg,” said he, briefly.
Kasam laughed.
“That is the usurper’s tribe,” said he; “the tribe of old Burah, who is
either dying or dead at this moment. No wonder my kinsmen assailed
you!”
Some of the ladies and gentlemen, who had understood nothing of this
conversation, now rode forward with eager questions in English
concerning the affray and those who had been slain. Bessie screamed at
sight of the mound of sand that was being rapidly heaped over the
victims, and Aunt Lucy declared she was about to faint and would fall
off the camel. Dr. Warner, in well chosen words, denounced a country
where such murderous assaults were possible, and the Colonel regretted
they had not arrived in time to see more of the fight. Even Allison
Moore displayed considerable interest in the incident, and condemned
Kasam for interrupting what might have been “a very pretty scrap.”
Meantime Ahmed, with muffled face, sat his horse as if turned to stone,
and Dirrag scowled more and more at the gabble of the foreigners.
“Friend,” said Kasam, mistaking the scarred warrior for the leader of
the two, “we are riding to Mekran. If you travel our way you have
permission to attach yourselves to my caravan. It will doubtless insure
your safety.”
To what extent Dirrag might have resented this implication that they
were unable to protect themselves is uncertain, for an ungracious reply
on his part to the kindly-meant invitation was interrupted by a
recollection of the importance of his mission and the dangers that now
menaced his young companion.
“Prince Kasam has our thanks,” he muttered. “We journey to Mekran.”
As the caravan started anew Janet Moore, who had remained quietly in the
background, among the baggage-men and camel-drivers, rode slowly forward
and joined the group of Americans. Whereupon Bessie laughingly
reproached her for her timidity, and began chattering an unintelligible
explanation of what had happened.
The men of Ugg silently joined the caravan. Neither they nor their
horses seemed much the worse for the conflict, although Dirrag’s animal
had a gaping wound in the thigh that would soon become stiff and sore,
and the warrior had himself added a scratch across the forehead to his
collection of wounds.
“Your countrymen seem to regard life very lightly, Prince,” said the
Colonel, as they rode together near the front.
“Among themselves they have fought for centuries,” answered Kasam. “Yet
I am told that of late years, under Keedar and Burah Khan, these minor
frays have been forbidden and the combatants, if caught, severely
punished. But old Burah is as good as dead, now, and the squabbles of
the tribesmen are likely to break out afresh until I have time to
reorganize the government and pacify the country.”
“Will you, too, be known as ‘a fighting khan,’ such as the ‘Lion of
Mekran?’” asked Bessie, looking upon the young man with admiring eyes.
“I hope not, indeed,” he replied, laughing. “I shall try to instil
European ideas into the heads of my stupid countrymen, and teach them
the superiority of the Arts of Peace.”
None noticed that Ahmed’s horse had gradually forged ahead until he
rode just behind the party of Americans.
“Isn’t it queer,” remarked Miss Warner, musingly, “that the future
potentate of this big country is personally conducting us to his
capital? It was really nice of you, Prince, to return with our
passports. For a time we thought you had forsaken us, and Allison was
bent on our retracing our steps and quitting the country.”
Kasam glanced into Janet’s grave face.
“You need not fear my deserting you,” he said earnestly. “Indeed, had I
remained in Mekran during these days of waiting for the Khan’s death I
should have gone wild with suspense, for there is nothing that can be
done until Burah breathes his last breath. His physician, a stubborn
Persian, promised him life for seven days.”
“Suppose the Persian fails, and you are absent?” suggested the Colonel.
“If the Persian fails, so much the better,” returned Kasam; “for then
the monk-taught weakling son of Burah will not be acknowledged his
successor, and the title of Khan reverts to me.”
“But if the son arrives before his father’s death?”
It was the doctor who asked this question.
“Then we revolt--I believe that is the plan--and drive every member of
the tribe of Ugg from Mekran. But my cousin Ahmed cannot arrive before
the seventh day, which is the day after tomorrow, and, according to my
uncle Agahr, who is clever at intrigue, it will not be possible for
Burah’s son to arrive at all.”
“Why not?” demanded the Colonel.
“Assassination, I suppose,” suggested the doctor.
Kasam shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not ask my Uncle Agahr to explain these things. Ahmed is not to be
assassinated, however; he promised me that. Otherwise, it matters little
what prevents him from reaching his father’s death-bed.”
“What a splendid man that barbarian is!” whispered Bessie to Janet. The
latter turned slowly in her seat and gave a start of surprise, for Ahmed
rode just behind her. The look in the calm grey eyes seemed to thrill
the girl strangely, for she swayed in her saddle and might have fallen
had not the “barbarian” thrust out a strong arm and steadied her.
“What are you doing here?” cried Kasam, angrily, in the native Baluch.
“Back to the rear, my man, where you belong!”
Ahmed bowed gravely and retreated to where Dirrag rode. Nor did he again
venture near the front.
“How cross you were to that handsome fellow,” said Bessie, pouting her
pretty lips.
“Why, as for that, Miss Bessie,” returned the Prince, “I happened to
remember that I was indulging rather freely in political gossip; and
while it is impossible that he should understand English, your handsome
fellow is of the tribe of Ugg--our hereditary foes.”
“If all the tribe of Ugg are like these two samples,” remarked the
doctor, “it may not be so easy to thrust them from your capital.”
“They are not, I suppose. I do not remember to have seen so fine a
specimen of manhood as the tall one among the natives before. What a
pity that I know so little of my own country,” continued the young man
regretfully. “Did you notice how reverent my Afghans are toward that
little, battle-scarred warrior we rescued? He may be some man of
note--some mighty hero--for all I know. But doubtless he is a mere
quarrelsome tribesman, beneath my notice. When I am khan I shall make it
a point to study my people thoroughly, that I may better understand how
to manage them.”
At sundown they reached the edge of the desert and came to the fertile
plains of Melin. Here camp was made and, wearied with the day’s journey,
the travellers made their repast and retired early to rest.
“Tomorrow night we shall sleep in Mekran,” said Kasam. “I am sorry I
cannot invite you directly to the palace; but until old Burah dies I am
as much a stranger in my own country as any of you. However, my Uncle
Agahr will see that you are provided with comfortable quarters.”
“Are there no inns in Mekran?” asked Allison.
“Inns are plentiful, but afford only the most primitive accommodations.
We must house you in the dwelling of one of our adherents. There are
many of these, I assure you, of rank and wealth. And now, I bid you
good-night, ladies. May Allah guard your rest.”
At the door of their tent the doctor and Colonel Moore smoked a cigar
before retiring.
“I am sorry,” said the latter, in a low voice, “that in my ignorance of
Baluchistan I permitted the girls and Aunt Lucy to accompany us.”
“They’ve stood the trip pretty well, so far,” replied the doctor,
carelessly.
“Yes; but consider what a mess the country is in, politically. There’s
liable to be open warfare--perhaps a massacre--in a day or two,
according to Kasam. And the girls may--”
“Oh, we’ll keep the girls out of danger,” declared the doctor. “I’ve no
doubt they are as safe here as at home. I will acknowledge the country
is more wild and uncivilized than I had dreamed, but we’re on a matter
of business, Colonel, and I flatter myself we have as good as
accomplished our purpose already. Kasam is sure to grant us right of way
for our railroad--when he is khan.”
The Colonel smoked a while in silence.
“This young man,” he remarked, at length, “seems to have little doubt of
the success of his cause. Yet from all I have picked up since we drew
near to Baluchistan, that terrible Burah Khan who is dying is absolute
master of the situation. And his son-“
“His son is a priest-ridden devotee of Mahomet, who knows better how to
pray than to rule a turbulent nation. Don’t worry about Kasam, my dear
Colonel. He’s sure to win out. And if he doesn’t--”
The doctor smiled cynically.
“What then?”
“Why, if he doesn’t,” retorted the doctor, tossing away his cigar and
rising to retire, “the priest-bred weakling--is his name Ahmed?--will be
just the sort of ruler the Metropolitan Construction Company loves to
deal with. However the cat jumps we are sure to have the railway; so
let’s go to bed.”
Just before daybreak the leader of the Afghans came to Kasam’s tent and
awoke him.
“The men of Ugg are gone,” said he.
“Never mind,” returned the Prince, sitting up to yawn. “When did they
go?”
“Early last evening; soon after we made camp. They stole away
unobserved.”
“It doesn’t matter in the least,” said Kasam.
“Except that they have taken your Excellency’s black stallion, and left
in its place the wounded bay, which is too stiff to travel.”
“Why, that was base ingratitude,” said the young man, with unconcern. “I
must punish those fellows, if ever I see them again. But it is only a
day’s journey to Mekran. I’ll ride a dromedary, good captain; and, by
the way, let us make an early start.”
But at the same moment that Prince Kasam’s camp was awakening to
activity Ahmed and Dirrag, after a night’s hard gallop, rode through
the marble gates of Mekran.
It was the morning of the sixth day.
CHAPTER VIII
A WOMAN’S WAY
“And now,” the vizier had said to his daughter on the evening of the
fourth day, “let us rest content. The sirdar of the tribe of Raab--our
faithful ally Zarig--has sent a force to patrol the desert trails over
which Dirrag must pass with Ahmed on his return to Mekran. Zarig has
sworn that the son of Burah shall never reach here by the seventh day.”
“That is good,” answered Maie, thoughtfully. “But it is not enough.”
Agahr threw out his palms with an impulsive gesture.
“What would you have?” he asked, impatiently. “I have suborned every
servant in the palace; I have followed every plan you have suggested;
intrigue and cunning each moment battle for our great object.”
“Yet the Persian sits beside Burah Khan and baffles our every plot,”
replied the girl. “I will go to him myself, my father.”
“You! Impossible.”
“No one shall ever know but yourself, and you will guard my secret. But
see the Persian I must. Despite his pretended loyalty he is a mere
man--and surely there is a way to influence any man that lives.”
An hour later Agahr secretly introduced Maie into the palace, and while
he himself guarded the passage leading to the chamber of Burah the girl
boldly pushed aside the draperies at the entrance and confronted the
physician.
The Persian was standing beside the couch as she entered, and after a
glance at his visitor he quietly drew a silken coverlet over the still
form and advanced to where the girl stood awaiting him.
“I am the daughter of the vizier,” she said, softly.
“You are welcome,” declared the Persian; but he passed one hand over his
forehead as he spoke, and his voice sounded weary and discouraged.
Maie threw back her veil and smiled, while the physician, leaning upon
the low table that bore the shaded lamp, gazed wonderingly at the
beautiful face revealed.
“May I rest myself?” she asked, in her sweet voice, and without awaiting
permission she passed between the table and Burah’s couch and sank
gracefully upon a low divan.
The Persian hesitated an instant, and cast an uneasy glance at his
patient. Then he seated himself beside the table and bowed.
“It is the same old tale, I suppose?” he said, enquiringly. “You do not
wish the Khan to live to acknowledge his son?”
The girl gave a little laugh.
“It is very pleasant to find you both frank and comprehensive,” she
returned, “for now many useless words may be spared. Tell me, Persian,
why you insist upon interfering with our plans to depose the sons of Ugg
and restore the throne to the former rulers of Baluchistan? What is it
to you, a stranger, whether Burah Khan dies tonight--this very
moment--or lives to acknowledge his son two days hence?”
“Only this,” he answered quietly. “I have given my word.”
“Do you fear for your reputation as a skillful physician? Elai! You have
already accomplished wonders enough to make you famous. Had you not
arrived in Mekran, Burah Khan long since would have passed away.”
“It was a draught of my own invention,” said the man, musingly. “I am
anxious to test its powers. If it will hold Death at bay for seven days
I shall have solved an important problem in medical science.”
“But why is it necessary to test your draught on the Khan of
Baluchistan? There may be thousands of similar cases wherein the matter
of life and death is unimportant. Perhaps, in spite of your great fame,
you lack money. See!”
With a quick gesture she arose and approached the table, emptying upon
its spread the contents of a chamois bag. Before the physician’s eyes
sparkled a score of exquisite gems--diamonds, rubies, sapphires and
emeralds of enormous value.
He gave them but a glance and looked into the girl’s eyes. They
sparkled as brilliantly as the jewels, but were equally mystifying. What
she read in his own eyes is uncertain, but a moment later she sank at
his feet and clasped his knees in her rounded arms.
“For the cause of science,” she murmured, looking up into his face with
a ravishing smile, “I will gladly promise the great physician ten gems,
equally as flawless and pure, for every one now before him! It is a rare
treasure, my Persian. All I ask in return is permission to attend the
Khan until morning.”
His brow flushed, but he did not withdraw his gaze from her dark eyes.
“Ah, do not refuse me,” she pleaded, resting her head against him so
that the fragrance of her hair saluted his nostrils like an enchanting
perfume. “It is so little for you to do, when you may ask so much in
return!” Her bosom heaved with emotion and pressed against his knee.
“You shall have a palace of your own, my friend, here in Mekran, where
you may woo Science at your will and command a thousand slaves to do
your bidding. Are we not playing for a throne? And who shall have
greater power than the man that enables the new khan to sit therein and
rule a kingdom? I am the daughter of the vizier, my Persian, and
hereafter no physician but you shall attend me.”
She nestled closer, with a little sigh of content that seemed to
indicate the battle was won to their mutual satisfaction, and for a
moment both maintained the pose, silent and motionless.
Suddenly the physician stood up, freeing himself from the girl’s
embrace. With an abrupt motion he swept the glittering gems into the
little bag and tossed it at the girl’s feet. Then, with folded arms, he
stood looking down at where she still crouched by the empty chair, her
lovely features convulsed with a passion terrible to witness.
But the mood quickly passed. Her face cleared. She raised her hand and
rearranged the disordered masses of her hair, laughing the while in low
tones and lifting her eyes unabashed to the man who had repulsed her.
The Persian shuddered.
Slowly rising to her feet she made him a mocking bow and said,
jestingly:
“The chisel must indeed be dull that can carve no emblem on the marble.
No man, believe me, is incorruptible; I have failed merely because I
overestimated my own powers. Well, I will go.”
She looked around for her cloak. It lay over the divan, and she passed
the Persian as if to get it. But in the act of picking it up she paused,
straightened, and in two bounds stood beside the couch of the
unconscious khan. A dagger flashed, and once--twice--thrice she plunged
it deep into the bosom of the form hidden by the silken coverlet. Then
she turned with a laugh of triumph toward the physician, the dagger
still clasped in her jewelled fingers.
The Persian smiled.
Without a word he walked to the couch, and as she shrank aside he seized
the coverlet and thrust it back, revealing nothing more than a mass of
bolsters and cushions cleverly placed to outline the form of a man.
The girl, rigid and staring, turned her eyes from the couch to the
physician.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
He took her wrist, fearless of the dagger she still held, and led her to
an alcove. Throwing back the curtains he allowed her to gaze upon the
still form of Burah Khan, lying peacefully beside a window through which
the moon’s rays flooded the small apartment with mellow light.
Maie made no attempt to escape the grasp upon her wrist. She permitted
the man to lead her back to the larger room, where he wrapped the cloak
around her shoulders and placed the bag of jewels in her hand.
A moment later she rejoined the vizier in the passage.
“Well?” he enquired, anxiously.
“We must pin our faith to the men of Raab,” she replied, between her set
teeth. “The Persian is not human--he is a fiend!”
CHAPTER IX
THE SIXTH DAY
Dirrag led his master straight to the royal palace, reaching it just as
the first rays of the sun fell upon the city. As he arrived
unexpectedly, there was none to receive him except a few sleepy servants
and the sirdars of the tribes of Mem and Agot, who shared the watch over
the chamber of the khan. These, being loyal to the reigning house, were
overjoyed at the speedy and safe return of the messenger, and cast
curious glances at his tall companion.
But Dirrag knew where his duty lay and did not linger an instant. He
pressed on to the khan’s own chamber, and entered without announcement,
followed closely by Ahmed.
The Persian stood by an open window, engaged in rolling a cigarette. He
paused, motionless, as he saw Dirrag. His eye lighted with
satisfaction, and he drew a sigh of relief.
“Back already!” he said, pleasantly.
“As you see,” answered Dirrag, with pride. “It is the morning of the
sixth day, and I have saved twelve hours from my allotted time. And here
is Prince Ahmed, the son of Burah Khan, and heir to the Lion of
Mekran--safe and sound, although nearly as weary as I am myself.”
A long speech for Dirrag, but warranted by the marvelous ride he had so
successfully accomplished.
The Persian seemed not to hear it. He was staring fixedly at the tall
form of the Prince.
“You!” he gasped, as if a great surprise overwhelmed him.
Ahmed, with wide eyes reading the other through and through, and
seemingly filled with equal astonishment, answered steadily and briefly:
“I am the man.”
“I have searched for you throughout the East,” said the Physician,
recovering in a degree his composure. “And now--”
“Now you have found me,” returned Ahmed, smiling upon the other.
The two men clasped hands, and Dirrag, uneasily regarding the amazing
thing, shifted his booted feet back and forth with a child’s
nervousness.
“You the son of Burah Khan!” exclaimed one.
“You the famed physician of Persia!” said the other.
But Dirrag did not understand. They spoke a queer language unknown to
him.
Presently, however, the physician noted his distress and drew away from
the Prince, saying in the Baluch tongue:
“My lord the Prince Ahmed is welcome. It is fortunate for us all that he
has arrived safely.”
“And in time, I hope?” enquired Ahmed, eagerly. “How is my--how is Burah
Khan’s health?”
The Persian gave a little laugh, sat down, and proceeded to light his
cigarette.
“Burah Khan is dead,” said he.
“Dead!”
The physician nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke from his nostrils.
Dirrag gave a groan and sank limply into a chair. Ahmed, with a swift
glance into the Persian’s face, merely frowned and stood at attention,
as if waiting to hear more.
“It is doubtless a great misfortune,” continued the physician, speaking
in a leisurely tone, “and I have been in a desperate quandary, having no
one in all the throng surrounding the late khan in whom I dared confide.
The vizier is a traitor, and at the head of a formidable conspiracy. The
sirdars, with one exception, are faithful; but they are warriors, and
not fitted to counsel in so delicate a matter as this. So I have watched
beside the khan’s dead body for two days and two nights, and none save
myself knew he had ceased to breathe.”
“But, elai! did you not promise--” began Dirrag, in a boisterous tone.
“I did,” interrupted the other, coolly. “I promised Burah Khan should
live seven days--even while I saw the death-damp upon his brow. For I
read the vizier clearly, and suspected there was a conspiracy to
supplant the dying man’s son. It mattered nothing to me except that it
gave me pleasure to try to defeat the plot old Burah was himself unable
to foil. Moreover, I had faith in a peculiar powder that has been known
to hold life within a body for many days. It seemed the game was worth
the candle, did it not? And the old khan, to my great satisfaction, did
manage to live for four days of the six required by Dirrag to make the
journey to Takkatu and back. Then he died without awakening.”
“It is terrible,” said Dirrag, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Not so,” returned the physician, with an odd smile. “A man has ample
time to think when he sits by a dead body. We three are the sole owners
of the secret. Well? Shall we ring down the curtain, or go on with the
play?”
“The play!” repeated Dirrag, vacantly.
“It is all a play, my friend,” said the Persian, reassuringly, “and we,
living or dead, are expected to assume our characters to the end. So, if
an honest man is sometimes called upon to enact the part of a villain,
it is not greatly to his discredit.”
Ahmed stepped close to the physician and his grey eyes gazed full into
the other’s brown ones.
“If I become khan,” said he, “it will be due to your friendly offices.”
“I acknowledge it,” the physician replied.
“If I become khan,” persisted Ahmed, in the same level tone, “no man on
earth shall dictate my acts or cripple my power.”
The Persian smiled, indulgently.
“I will acknowledge that, also,” said he.
“Then,” continued the Prince, throwing himself upon a chair, “let the
play go on!”
* * * * *
Great was the excitement in Mekran when the news flew from palace to
town that Dirrag had returned, bringing with him the son of the dying
khan. Maie heard it from the mouth of a slave, and after one reproachful
glance at her father sat silent and still as a graven image, while the
vizier, with pallid face and a great fear at his heart, hastened away to
the palace.
The men of Mem and Agot guarded the gateway and jeered openly at Agahr
as he hurried through. Within the courtyard were assembled the sirdars
and chiefs of all the fighting tribes of Baluchi, waiting in grim
silence for the drama about to be enacted. They saluted the vizier.
Agahr started to ascend the stairway leading to the gallery that gave
entrance to the khan’s chamber; but a row of hard-featured men of Ugg
forced him back. No one could be admitted until the Persian physician
gave the order. He was preparing his patient for the ceremony.
“But I am the Khan’s vizier!” protested the old man, trembling despite
his effort at command.
A rugged warrior faced him and bowed low.
“In all else, master, your word is law,” said he, courteously. “But in
the chamber of death the physician rules supreme--by the grace of Allah
and the will of His Highness the Khan.”
Agahr turned and waited with the others in silence.
It was not long. A tall Arab slave, known as a favorite attendant of the
Lion of Mekran, appeared upon the stairs and called aloud:
“Burah Khan, son of Keedar the Great, Headsman of the Nine Tribes of
Baluchi and Defender of the Faith, commands the Sirdars of the Nation
and the officers of his household to attend him!”
They obeyed at once, fully conscious of the mighty import of the
message. The sirdars came first, followed by Agahr and the civil
officers and then a long train of household retainers of lesser
rank--all proceeding with dignified steps up the marble stairway, along
the gallery, and so into the spacious chamber of the Khan.
The Arab slave, acting as major-domo, ranged them in the order of their
rank, facing the curtained alcove in which lay the body of their ruler.
Then, as silence fell upon the throng, the curtains were drawn and those
assembled gazed upon an impressive scene.
Upon a couch covered with costly furs reclined the Khan, his sunken
features dimly outlined in the soft light and the jewelled stars upon
his breast glinting darkly as his bosom rose and fell. Over him bent
the strange physician, administering from a golden cup the draught which
it was understood would restore the sick man to intelligence for a brief
period. But after a glance at this tableau all eyes were turned to the
upright form of a young man standing with folded arms at the head of the
couch. He was clad in a magnificent robe of purple satin richly
embroidered with pearls, and by his side hung the famous cimeter known
to every sirdar as the sword of Keedar Khan, and which had been
entrusted by Burah to the priests of the monastery for safe keeping
until Prince Ahmed should be called to Mekran.
There was something in the majestic presence of the heir, his haughty
bearing and the look of pride in the calm grey eyes that wandered from
one to another of the faces confronting him, that sent a thrill through
all the assemblage. To some that thrill meant elation, to some fear; but
to all it brought a subtle recognition of the fact that here was the
heritage of power, that the son of Burah and grandson of Keedar was a
man to be promptly obeyed.
The physician, passing an arm under the sick man’s head, supported him
to a sitting position, and Burah Khan, after taking his son’s right hand
in his own, began speaking to his people slowly and in low, halting
accents.
“Here--is Prince--Ahmed, my son and rightful--heir. I, Burah Khan,
standing--in the shadow of--death, do acknowledge him to be
my--successor--to the throne of Mekran. Sirdars of the--Nine--Mighty
Tribes of the--Baluchi, do ye, also, acknowledge him--to be your--Khan
and Master--when I am gone?”
So still was the throng that every word of the faltering voice was
distinctly heard. As it ceased the nine sirdars drew their swords and
cast them at Ahmed’s feet, crying aloud:
“We acknowledge Ahmed to be our Khan, when Allah claims his sire, Burah
Khan.”
Answering the shout was a sob and a sudden fall. The spectators drew
aside with significant looks as slaves carried the fainting vizier from
the chamber. Then all eyes turned again to the alcove.
Burah lay back upon his couch with closed eyes, and Ahmed knelt beside
him.
The physician bent over and placed an ear above the old man’s heart.
Then he stood erect and signed to the Arab to draw the curtain.
“Burah Khan is dead,” said he, solemnly. “May Allah and the Prophet
grant him peace!”
The curtain fell, and very humbly and reverently the assembled people
bowed their heads and crept from the chamber of death.
CHAPTER X
AHMED KHAN
“Behold the walls of Mekran!” said Kasam proudly.
They had been riding all afternoon through a beautiful and fertile
valley, rich with fields of waving grain, tracts of vegetables,
vineyards and orchards, all tended by the Kendars, Brahoes and Melinos,
for the warlike Baluchi were too dignified to till the soil. It was from
this valley that the city of Mekran derived its main sustenance and
support, and now, as they mounted a little eminence, the city itself
came into view--a huge, whitewashed stone wall above which peeped the
roofs of many dwellings, mosques and palaces.
“The palace of the khan,” said Kasam, “is near the center, beside the
famous bubbling pools of Mekran. You may tell it by the high towers and
minarets. It is all built of marble and its gardens are more beautiful
than any in Europe.”
“You may well be proud of this great city, which you are so soon to
rule,” observed Bessie, instantly connecting the prince with the place
of his nativity. “It is one of the prettiest sights I have ever seen.”
“We must make this an important depot for the new railway,” said the
Colonel, with something like enthusiasm. “The whole world will come to
see Mekran when the journey can be made in Pullmans.”
But as they drew nearer and the sun sank toward the horizon Mekran lost
much of its beauty. The whitewash of the great wall was seen to be grimy
and stained in many places, and the roofs above it showed considerable
discoloration by the weather. It was an old city, and had long since
lost the freshness of youth. Indeed, Allison took occasion to denounce,
with some contempt, a place which seemed “nearly as filthy as the people
of this beastly country themselves,” and Kasam flushed slightly with a
realization that neither Mekran nor his people could be counted quite
immaculate.
Beneath the setting sun, however, the spires and domes glowed golden
red, and even the young engineer ceased reviling the place they had come
so far from civilization to visit.
At dusk the caravan entered at the North Gate, and Kasam called
attention to the thickness of the wall as they rode through, and to the
picturesque watch-tower perched above the gate. Then, coming into the
light of the inner city he gave a start of surprise, for lining the
sides of the narrow street were solid ranks of Baluchi warriors, both
mounted and on foot, who stood so silently in their places that their
presence was all unsuspected until the Prince came full upon them.
Hesitating, he reigned in his horse, and at that moment the iron gates
fell with a clang behind the last of his cavalcade.
“You are going to have a reception, Prince,” remarked Dr. Warner, who
rode near the guide.
Kasam muttered a curse and urged forward his horse. The Baluchi
instantly closed their ranks, surrounding him with a solid phalanx.
“Welcome to Mekran, my lord,” said a voice, and Kasam turned to find the
warrior he had rescued in the desert riding at his stirrup. There was no
mistaking Dirrag. The fresh scratch upon his brow marked his seared face
with a streak of livid red.
“His Highness the Khan has requested your presence at the palace,”
continued the warrior, in respectful tones.
“Me?” asked the young man, startled.
“You are Prince Kasam, I believe.”
“Ah, I begin to understand. You have betrayed me as a fitting return for
having saved your life. It was to be expected in a man of Ugg. But why
does old Burah demand my presence? Am I a prisoner?”
“Burah Khan is in Paradise,” said Dirrag, gravely.
“Dead!... And his son?”
“Now rules as Ahmed Khan.”
Kasam’s bronzed features drew tense. He became silent.
As they turned a corner he noticed they had become detached from the
others of his party and were now alone.
“Where are my companions?” he enquired, with anxiety. “I am guiding a
party of foreigners, who are strange to Mekran.”
“They will be safely cared for,” answered Dirrag, reassuringly.
“And my Afghans?”
“They also. The Khan has provided for all.”
The answers were far from satisfactory, but Kasam had perils of his own
to confront, and dismissed his American friends from his thoughts with
the belief that the new khan would not care to interfere with their
liberties.
His own case was far more embarrassing: for the moment, at least. The
tidings of Burah’s death and his son’s succession to the sovereign
office of Khan had struck him like a blow. It was only the evening of
the sixth day, he reflected, and Agahr had not expected anything
important to happen until the seventh day, at least. How in the world
had Ahmed managed to reach Mekran from Takkatu so soon?
Then the truth flashed upon him, and he groaned aloud. The tall Baluch
he had rescued from the men of Raab and escorted safely to the plains
of Melin was none other than Prince Ahmed himself, and Kasam’s folly in
interfering with his uncle Agahr’s plans had resulted in his own
undoing!
They were at the palace now.
Dirrag held Kasam’s horse while he dismounted and then escorted the
young man into the courtyard and through several winding passages. Soon
they came to a small chamber, the entrance to which was guarded by the
Arab slave Memendama, who allowed them to pass at a word from Dirrag.
Here were more attendants and slaves, richly dressed in the crimson,
white and purple of the House of Ugg. Kasam looked uneasily upon the
expressionless faces, and cast himself upon a divan to await the summons
to the Khan’s presence. It came in a few brief moments, and Dirrag led
the Prince through still another passage to a marble balcony, where two
men were seated at a small table and a third stood at the carved rail
looking into the gardens below.
Kasam glanced at the two who were seated and failed to recognize them.
One was Merad, the Persian physician; the other the sirdar of the tribe
of Ugg.
The man at the rail turned about, and Kasam knew him at once. He had
been Dirrag’s companion in the desert.
“I am glad to welcome you, Prince Kasam,” said the khan, courteously.
“Pray be seated.”
He motioned toward a chair, but Kasam stood erect.
“Tell me first,” said he, “whether I am to consider myself a guest or a
prisoner.”
“Surely not a prisoner, my cousin. I may use that title, may I not,
since we are related?”
“The relation is distant,” said the other, proudly. “I am of the Tribe
of Raab, and for seven generations my ancestors ruled all Baluchistan.”
“So I understand,” returned the Khan, dryly. “They were also my
ancestors, for the same royal blood flowed in the veins of Keedar Khan.
But why should we speak of the past? Today, by the grace of Allah, I am
myself ruler of Baluchistan.”
“By treachery and cunning, rather than Allah’s grace,” retorted the
Prince, defiantly. “Should right and justice prevail I would myself be
sitting upon the throne of my forefathers.”
“It is a matter of common knowledge,” answered Ahmed, quietly facing the
other and looking calmly down from his superior height into the
passionate face of the younger man, “that neither right nor justice
entitled your forefathers to rule this land. It may comfort you, cousin,
to look into the history of the Tribes, concerning which you seem to be
somewhat misinformed. But it is not worth arguing at present. What
interests us more keenly is the condition that confronts us. Through the
sad ending of Burah Khan, whose body now lies in state in the Mosque of
the Angels, I am suddenly called to the throne. Because of my
inexperience in affairs of state I shall need, as councillors and
advisors, the assistance of all those to whom the welfare of Baluchistan
is dear. Doubtless you love your country, Prince Kasam, and your
European education will have given you broad and intelligent ideas of
modern government. Therefore I value your friendship. Will you become my
vizier, and assist me to rule my people to their greatest good?”
Kasam was astounded. The proposition, coming from one whom he had reason
to consider his greatest foe, was as unexpected as it was impossible.
Moreover, it indicated a weakness of character and lack of sound
judgment in the new ruler that both pleased and encouraged him. Ahmed
was a big and burly fellow, it was true, but he seemed as gentle as a
woman. Evidently a monastery training did not stimulate virility of
mind.
Kasam thought rapidly during the few moments that he stood with downcast
eyes before Ahmed Khan, and his conclusions determined him upon his
course of action. Then, remembering they were not alone, he glanced
toward the table and encountered the physician’s mocking gaze. If Ahmed
was weak, here at least was a strong man. Indignant and alarmed at what
he read in the dark eyes he turned to Abdul, the Sirdar of Ugg, for
reassurance. That white-haired dignitary sat with composed and placid
countenance quietly regarding the khan, whose words and actions alone
seemed to afford him interest.
“What if I refuse?” asked Kasam, sharply, turning again to Ahmed.
“Then you will grieve me.”
The Prince smiled contemptuously.
“But you will put me in prison, or assassinate me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because, if you cannot induce me to serve you, it will be wise to get
me out of your way.”
“I cannot believe that,” returned Ahmed, gently. “The conspiracy of your
uncle, Agahr, to place you upon my throne is well known to me, yet I
have not even reproached him for his apparent disloyalty. I can
understand that the heir of former khans would strive to regain his lost
heritage, and your ambition seems to me a natural one. But I am here,
and shall remain. Your adherents are weak and impotent. You could not be
khan unless they were stronger than my own. Because I appreciate your
disappointment I offer you the highest office within my gift. Be my
vizier; trust me as I trust you, and let us be friends.”
“I refuse!”
“Then you may go free, to act as you deem best.”
“Free! I may go free?”
“Assuredly. I owe you that courtesy, even did I fear you, for having
assisted me in the desert. My act may not balance accounts, but it will
be an earnest of my gratitude.”
“Let us cry quits,” said Kasam, eagerly, “and start a new score. For I
warn you, Ahmed Khan, that from this day I will oppose you with all my
might.”
Ahmed bowed. His face showed neither disappointment nor surprise, and as
if he considered the interview at an end he turned again toward the
railing, looking down into the flower beds and shrubbery.
Kasam hesitated, glancing at the other silent witness of the scene. The
Persian was industriously rolling a cigarette. Dirrag stood with legs
astride, evidently admiring his boots. But the sirdar, Abdul, seemed
annoyed, and said to the Khan:
“The man openly threatens your Highness. We are not sure of his
tribesmen of Raab. Would it not be well to take some action in this
matter?”
“Let him go,” replied the Khan, without turning.
Kasam flushed at the tone of indifference. It seemed to him that he was
being treated like a child.
“The sirdar is old and wise,” he exclaimed, angrily, “and the Khan of
Mekran is young and foolish. Elai! the die is cast. I will go.”
With this he strode from the room, and none hindered. The slaves and
attendants in the outer chamber made no interference with his retreat.
Although he had a vague fear that the Khan’s words were insincere he
traversed the halls, passed through the courtyard, and so left the
palace.
A solitary attendant was leading his horse back and forth, as if
awaiting him. Kasam was amused. The Khan needed a few lessons from his
warlike sirdars if he wished to remain secure in his throne. The Prince
mounted his horse and, filled with exultant thoughts, galloped away to
the house of Agahr the Vizier.
Night had fallen by this time, and as Kasam approached he found Agahr’s
house dark and silent. The lamp that usually swung in the archway was
unlighted; there were no slaves at the door. Kasam was seized with
sudden misgivings. What if, in spite of Ahmed’s assurances, the plotting
vizier had fallen under the new khan’s displeasure? Much depended upon
Agahr, for all of Kasam’s interests were in his keeping. Scarce a day
had passed since Ahmed Khan had come into power; but much may happen in
a day; indeed, much had happened, as he was soon to discover.
Answering his imperative summons a slave cautiously unbolted the door
and, after a stealthy inspection of the visitor, admitted him with
alacrity.
“Is my uncle here?” demanded Kasam.
The slave nodded, caught up a torch and turned to lead the way down a
passage.
The Prince followed.
Suddenly a drapery was pushed aside and he entered a room brilliantly
lighted. Agahr sat upon a divan, and beside him, her fair face scarcely
concealed by her veil, was Maie. Facing them in a close drawn circle
were Zarig, the Sirdar of Raab, a lean priest in a coarse woollen robe,
and several men with restless faces that proved to be strangers to
Kasam.
All were silent, even when the Prince, finding all eyes turned upon him,
slapped his chest rather theatrically and exclaimed: “I am here!”
Maie twisted the rings upon her slender fingers; the vizier nodded
gravely to his nephew and stroked his gray beard; the sirdar sprang to
his feet and strode back and forth in the narrow confines of the room,
pausing anon to cast a shrewd glance into Kasam’s puzzled face. The
others merely exchanged nods of understanding, save the priest, who
frowned and fixed his eyes upon the floor.
At length the vizier broke the embarrassing silence.
“This,” said he, waving a listless hand toward the new arrival, “is
Kasam of Raab.”
“Welcome!” said the sirdar, laconically, and resumed his stride. Without
rising the others turned to bow gravely, but seemed to display little
real interest.
Although at first both hurt and annoyed by the nonchalence of those
assembled, the young prince was quick to decide that the conspirators
were doubtless overwhelmed by the sudden death of Burah and the
accession of his son Ahmed. It should be his part to instil new courage
into their timid hearts.
“I have just come from an interview with the young khan,” he said,
seating himself in the sirdar’s vacant chair and looking around the
circle to note the effect of his announcement.
The company did not seem especially impressed. Perhaps, he reflected,
they were aware that Dirrag had taken him to the palace directly on his
arrival.
“Ahmed Khan,” continued Kasam, “has offered to make me his vizier.”
Ah, they were eager enough now. Every eye was turned curiously upon the
young man.
“I refused,” said Kasam, proudly. “I defied him to his very face, and
bade him beware my power.”
Agahr drew a sigh of relief, and Maie smiled. The sirdar, who had paused
again, renewed his pacing.
“Friends,” cried Kasam, “the die is cast. From this day I will fight
Ahmed Khan for the throne of Mekran. Never will I rest until the usurper
is conquered and I am master of all Baluchistan.”
“A noble ambition,” said the sirdar, nodding approval.
“You have my best wishes, cousin,” added Maie, sweetly.
“But forbear, I pray you, my good Kasam, from telling me of your future
plans,” spoke Agahr, adjusting his robe carefully. “His Highness the
Khan has also accorded me an interview, and offered to retain me as his
vizier in case you refused the office. Therefore--”
“And you accepted?” asked the young man, indignantly.
Agahr frowned.
“I have filled the office for forty-six years,” said he; “and surely
none is better fitted than I for the place. Moreover, his Highness hath
promised to increase my honors and reduce my labors, and since I grow
old in serving the nation this consideration pleases me and renders me
content.”
“Yet you would serve a trickster--a weak, priest-ridden
impostor--instead of me, your kinsman and a Prince of Raab?”
“The man you call weak,” said Agahr, composedly, “has proven himself
strong. In ruling Baluchistan from the throne of Mekran he will be
masterful, energetic and supreme. Within his veins flows the blood of
two mighty khans whom all the nation feared--as they will come to fear
him. Had we considered Ahmed to be really weak, my Kasam, your cause
would have prospered and gained adherents; but to oppose the new khan
would be as foolish as it would prove vain. Already he has seized every
thread of power in an iron grasp.”
The company doubtless approved this speech, for all except the sirdar
nodded wisely and sighed. But Zarig stopped abruptly and gave the Prince
a keen look.
“You are trapped,” said he, harshly; “trapped by friends and foes alike.
What will you do, Prince Kasam?”
“Fight!” answered the young man, stoutly. “Even if I stand alone I will
defy the son of Burah Khan. But I will not stand alone. England, the
greatest of all nations, will support my cause, and Afghanistan will
lend an army to fight for my standard. Before I have done with Ahmed
Khan I will pull down the walls of Mekran about his ears.”
Maie smiled again, and the lean priest laughed outright. But Zarig
strode forward and grasped Kasam’s hand.
“Words--all words!” he cried. “Yet the spirit is the spirit of
conquerors, and you may count the tribe of Raab upon your side. Too long
have I and my people bowed down to the men of Ugg. We are but one tribe
of nine, but we have more wealth than all the others combined, and
enough courage to match any force the young khan may send against us.
Come, Kasam of Raab; let us leave these cowardly croakers to sun
themselves in the favor of the usurper. It is our part to sound the
battle-cry!”
Having delivered this bombastic speech the sirdar left the room,
followed closely by Kasam, and in the stillness that followed their
departure Maie, still smiling, bent forward and whispered:
“Words--all words!”
BOOK II
THE WOMAN