THE SPIRIT OF UNREST
Two weeks had passed since the events just narrated, and peace seemed to
have again settled over the isolated town of Mekran. Kasam remained at
the palace, declaring himself a faithful adherent of Ahmed Khan, but
although he had sent word to Zarig, the sirdar of Raab, who yet remained
encamped with his warriors in the west valley, that peace was declared,
the rebellious sirdar had refused to come into the city and make
obeisance to Ahmed of Ugg.
All the Americans were now housed within the palace, and Aunt Lucy had
come to revise and reconstruct her opinion of that whilom den of
iniquity, the harem. But Allison’s tragic death had sobered the good
lady, as it had all of their little band, and checked for a time at
least her garrulity and desire to criticise. There was no doubt of Aunt
Lucy’s democracy, yet it was amusing to note her pride in the fact that
Janet was the wife of an Eastern potentate of the importance of Ahmed
Khan. It would be a splendid tale to carry back to New York, and she had
already decided to leave an envelope always carelessly lying upon her
table addressed to “Her Imperial Majesty the Khanum of Mekran and
Empress of Baluchistan.” It would serve to amuse visitors while she
arranged her hair at the mirror before coming down.
Kasam’s wild passion for Janet had quickly evaporated with the news that
she was wedded to Ahmed. The young prince was greatly subdued in spirit,
and made no objections to Bessie’s kindly efforts to console him. His
position in the palace was necessarily an uncomfortable one, for he held
no clearly defined rank in the household and there was no gift within
the power of the Khan that it would be dignified in him to accept.
Reared from childhood with the ambition of sometime becoming the ruler
of Mekran by virtue of his royal blood, it was naturally difficult for
Kasam to realize that this brilliant dream was past and he must be
content to abandon it forever.
So he wandered restlessly in the gardens, with Bessie by his side, and
accompanied the girl on long rides through the pleasant valleys, and
might have been as happy as in the old days had he allowed himself to
forget his disappointment.
Meantime Salaman, the Grand Mufti of the realm, remained the chosen
companion of the Khan, who, notwithstanding the deference he paid to his
illustrious father, leaned more upon the aged priest than any other of
his friends. And thus it was that one bright morning they walked
together upon a high roof of the palace, where none might interrupt
their earnest communion.
“I have thought well upon your words, my son,” said Salaman, “and
examined critically your desires, striving honestly to quell my own
inclination to oppose you. But I fear I cannot understand you wholly.
What is there in this favored country--the land of your famous
forefathers--that repels you, and inclines you to leave it?”
Ahmed paced up and down, thoughtfully weighing his words e’er he
replied.
“It is, as you well say, my father, a land favored of Allah; yet the
life here is the life of the lotus-eaters; or one of holy concentration;
or even of idle dreams. Time has no wings in Baluchistan. We live, and
lo, we die, while the sun shines fair as ever, the breezes rustle
through the palms, the fountains still splash in their marble basins,
and the endless chain of humanity creeps on from the cradle to the grave
with uneventful languor. As it was a hundred years ago, so it is today;
as it is now it will be found in future ages--merely Baluchistan, the
home of a million contented souls, all faithful to Allah, all
indifferent to earthly conditions outside their narrow limits.”
“Truly, a paradise on earth!” said Salaman, nodding approval.
“In the West,” said the Khan, a stronger note creeping into his voice,
“a spirit of unrest is ever abroad. It impels men to do and to dare,
feeding upon their brain and brawn rather than upbuilding them. They
strive--strive ever, though erring or misdirected--putting their
shoulders all together to the wheel of the juggernaut chariot of
Progress and sweating mightily that some thing may be accomplished that
was never known before. And in this they find content.”
“Poor souls!” murmured the priest.
“Father, I am of these--my mother’s people--rather than of those who
rest satisfied with Allah’s gifts. Here I may never be at peace. As Khan
of Mekran I would overturn all existing conditions. I would plunge my
people into reckless wars of conquest, build rails for iron chariots to
speed upon--shrieking the cry of Progress throughout the land. Merchants
from all nations would gather here to rouse the tribesmen to barter and
sale, teaching them lies and deceptions now all unknown to their simple
hearts. My father, I would be as dangerous to your people as a firebrand
in a thatch. Let me go. Send me back to that country whence I came: the
country that taught me unrest; the country where alone I shall find
employment for an earnest heart and a strong right arm! Put Kasam in my
place.”
“It may be that you are right; that you know what is best for us all,”
replied the priest, sadly. “But you demand that I perform a difficult
task. You are Khan of Mekran, acknowledged legally by the sirdars and--”
“Not by Burah Khan,” interrupted the other, with a smile. “It was my
faithful Dirrag who, dressed in the dead Burah’s robes, enacted the
Khan’s part and acknowledged me before the sirdars.”
Salaman gave a sigh of regret.
“True, dear Hafiz,” he said, unconsciously adopting the old affectionate
appellation. “But you are grandson of the great Keedar. You rule justly
and by right of inheritance. And in the beginning you accepted the
throne readily enough. What has caused your inclinations to so change?”
“I have found a wife,” said the young man, proudly; “and she is an
American. Without her I was content to merely exist. With her by my
side I am roused to action. Hear me, father. Kasam will rule you better
than ever I could do. His heart is here--where he was born. He will
forget, as I never could do, the urgent prompting of that western
civilization we have both known. Let Kasam be khan!”
Salaman came close to Ahmed, placed both hands upon his shoulders, and
laid his aged head against the strong young breast.
“We have been friends, my Hafiz, and I have loved you. It grieves my
very heart to let you go. But if I can compass the thing and bring the
people to consent, it shall be according to your will. For life is
brief, as you say, and Allah waits above for us both. And wherein would
the charm of friendship lie if the selfishness of one should steal the
other’s heart’s desire?”
For reply Ahmed gathered the speaker into his steadfast embrace; and so
they stood silent and alone upon the housetop, with Allah’s sun lovingly
caressing the brown locks of the Khan and the silvery beard of the high
priest.