THE MOUNTAIN CHILD.
Walter was startled from his meditations by a sudden rustling in the
bushes, followed by a cry of pain or terror, not many yards from the
spot where he was reclining. In an instant he was on his feet; and
turning towards the point whence the sound came, Walter saw a very
large cheetah (leopard), that had sprung from its covert on an Afghan
child, and was trying to carry her off. The little girl was
struggling and resisting with all her might, striking at the savage
beast with her small clenched hand, while she loudly cried out for
help. It was well that help was near, or the struggle would have
been short, and its fatal issue certain. Walter had no weapon in his
hand; but unarmed as he was, he dashed through the brushwood to the
rescue of the poor child. His short and sudden rush was enough to
alarm the cheetah, which seldom, if ever, attacks a man. The wild
beast dropped its hold of its prey, and bounding off, escaped by some
unseen outlet from the copse.
Walter went up to the child, and beheld the most beautiful girl on
whom his eyes had ever rested. Excitement and the effort of the
struggle had added a deeper crimson to her cheeks; her face was
scarcely darker than that of a European. Large blue eyes, dilated
with fear, fringed with long soft dark lashes, were raised towards
her preserver with an eager wistful gaze. The girl's hair, in long
rich plaits, fell over her bright red _hurta_, and was adorned with
many a silver ornament. Walter was too well accustomed to Oriental
taste to think the child's loveliness lessened by the numerous rings
which weighed down her little ears, or even the jewel on one side of
the delicately formed nose. The child was evidently no poor man's
daughter.
The girl did not appear to be seriously injured; her loose sleeve was
very much torn, and a few drops of blood fell from one of her arms.
The attack and rescue had been the work of but a few seconds.
"You are wounded, my poor lamb!" cried Walter in the Pushtoo tongue,
and drawing out his handkerchief he tore it into shreds to bind up
the bleeding arm.
"Not a lamb--for I fought it; I struck it! If I'd had a dagger I
would have killed it!" cried the girl with a fierceness which seemed
strange in one so young and fair. "I'm an eagle, for I live in the
Eagle's Nest!"
With childlike confidence the little Afghan let Walter bind up her
arm, looking at him with a curiosity which seemed to overpower every
other emotion.
"They say you're a Kafir," she observed; "you're not a dog of a
Kafir, you are brave and you are kind."
"How came you to be in the jungle, my child?" asked Walter; "I never
saw you till you cried out."
The child smiled as she answered: "You did not see me, nor did you
see the cheetah. Wild beasts know how to hide, and so does the wild
Afghan."
"Why did you hide?" asked Walter.
"I crept down to see what Kafirs are like. They told me that rich
white Feringhees were going through the pass, one riding on a
beautiful horse. I hope that the horse is not yours?" she added in a
tone of inquiry.
"No, the horse is not mine," replied Walter.
"I am glad of that," said the girl.
"And why?" inquired the Englishman.
"Because I should not like to loot you."
"Ha! a secret let out!" thought Walter. "Do you think that poor
travellers ought to be looted?" he said aloud.
"No, but _rich_ ones should," was the naive reply. "My father says
there are big boxes all filled with treasure. He promised to change
my silver bracelets for gold ones from the Feringhee's spoils."
Walter was almost as much amused by the frankness of the child, as
alarmed by the information which she gave.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Sultána," replied the child, whose queenly manner suited her name.
"Sometimes my father calls me his little eagle."
"And who is your father, Sultána?"
"My father is a bold chief, a _bara bahadar_ (great hero)," replied
the girl proudly. "His foes all dread Assad Khan. When last he came
back to the Eagle's Nest from a foray, I saw that two heads hung from
his saddle-bow."
"You did not like to see those ghastly heads? you turned away?" said
the English youth, his soul revolting from the idea of that beautiful
child being connected with scenes of slaughter.
"Why should I turn away? Afghans like to see dead foes. I wish,
when I'm old enough, that I could ride about and fight like the
Turkystan women!"
"Now, Sultána, you say that your father is a chief. If we travellers
came to his fort and asked for food and shelter, would he not give
them?" asked Walter, who had almost finished his surgical task."
"Yes, Assad Khan would kill a sheep; he would feast the strangers;
Afghans are kind to strangers," replied the girl.
"And your father would send them on their way in safety?" inquired
Walter, who had a personal interest in the reply to the question.
"Yes, they would be safe, till they had gone a little distance," said
Sultána, a smile rising to her rose-bud lips.
"And then?"
"Then, if they were rich, he would follow and loot them; if they
fought--he would kill them."
"Oh, what fearful darkness broods over this land!" thought Walter,
"when the very children are trained to delight in deeds of rapine and
blood;" and he sighed.
"Why do you sigh?" said Sultána, more gently, laying her little hand
upon Walter's. "My father would not cut off your head. You saved
his little Eagle. I like you--I thank you!" and soft moisture rose
in her large blue eyes as she uttered the words.
"Sultána, you have not thanked Him who sent me to save you," said
Walter, gently caressing the small, sun-burnt hand.
"Who sent you?" exclaimed Sultána, glancing suspiciously around.
"The great God,--He whom you call Allah."
"Did He send you,--did He speak to you? when? how?" exclaimed
Sultána, in great surprise, withdrawing her hand as she spoke.
"I did not hear His voice with my mortal ears; and yet, Sultána, I
feel sure, quite sure, that He sent me here to save you. I came into
this jungle thinking to be quite alone, that I might talk with God."
"How can you talk with Allah?" cried Sultána, the mystery exciting
her curiosity, almost her fear.
"I tell him all my troubles," replied Walter; "I have had many
troubles of late, and I thank Allah for helping me through them. I
shall thank Him to-night for saving you from the cheetah."
"And does Allah answer?" inquired Sultána, her large eyes fixed
inquiringly on the speaker.
"Yes, but in a way that you cannot understand. O Sultána, I am so
glad that the Lord both hears me and loves me. I wish that you too
would talk with God."
"The Moullahs don't teach us anything like that," observed Sultána;
"they teach us to say 'There is one God, and Mohammed is His
prophet.'" She repeated this moslem confession of faith with the
enthusiasm with which its very sound seems to inspire the followers
of Islam. "Is that what you want me to say?"
"No, my child," said Walter, very gently; "I want you to say such
words as these: 'Allah! teach me to know Thee! Allah! teach me to
love Thee!'"
"Love!" repeated the young Afghan, as if her mind could scarcely take
in an idea so new. "We must obey Allah, and fast in the Ramazan
(though my father doesn't), and those who want to be saints should go
and walk round the black stone at Mecca. But _love!_ why should I
love Allah?"
"Because He loves you," replied Walter; "I can tell you, for I _know_
it, what your Moullahs never have told you, that _God is love_."
At this moment, a peculiar sound, something like a whistle, was heard
from the height above. Sultána started at the sound.
"They've missed me--they're seeking me!" she exclaimed, and with the
rapidity of a fawn she sprang away, and disappeared as the cheetah
had done, by some unperceived outlet.
It was useless to attempt to follow the child, especially as the
sunset glow had given place to deepening twilight. With rapid steps
Walter returned to Denis, whom he found smoking by the fire.
"What on earth were those strange noises that I heard a little while
ago?" asked Denis, taking the cigar from his lips; "I heard something
like a scramble and a cry, and you shouted from the thicket yonder,
and there was, I think, a crashing of bushes. I'd half a mind to
come and see what you were after. Did you rouse some wild beast from
his lair?"
Walter gave a short account of Sultána's adventure, to which Denis
listened with keen interest, bursting into laughter when he heard of
the little maiden's intended appropriation of his horse; it was a
very brief laugh, however, and by no means one of unmingled mirth.
"And now, Dermot, you see that we are watched, waylaid, that we shall
certainly be attacked and robbed by these fierce mountaineers; you
must resolve at once on what course to pursue."
"Sell my life as dearly as I can," muttered Denis, grasping one of
his pistols.
"No; mount your horse, your good fleet horse, and make your way back
with all speed, under the cover of night. Your animal is not knocked
up like ours. He may at least bear you far enough to place you
beyond immediate pursuit. You must of course abandon your property,
and it may serve to satisfy for a time the rapacity of these wolves.
I do not think that the muleteers, who will not attempt to fight, run
any serious risk; they will merely lose the beasts. But you--you
must not delay for an hour your escape back to India."
"Escape back to India!" exclaimed Denis, indignantly starting to his
feet. "What do you take me for, boy? Do you think that I, Dermot
Denis, am the man to run off from the shadow of danger like a cur
that flies yelping away if you do but lift up a stone. Do you think
that I am the man to endure being twitted with having begun an
enterprise which I had not the spirit to carry out, a man to save his
own neck by leaving his comrade to be murdered by these brutal
Afghans!"
"My danger is less then yours," observed Walter. "In the first place
I have the protection of poverty; in the second I have made friends
with the child of a chief."
"What a bit of luck for us!" exclaimed Denis, in a completely altered
tone, throwing himself again on the ground beside the glowing embers
of the fire. "I certainly was born under some auspicious star! No
sooner do I lose my rogue of a guide, than up starts a powerful chief
to act both as guide and protector. Of course I'll be hand and glove
with this Assad Khan; he'll introduce me at Kandahar as his most
particular friend. Of course I'll make him no end of promises,--one
must never be sparing of them. I'll tell the chief that when I get
back to India, I'll send him my horse--a free gift--and half-a-dozen
others loaded with jewels for pretty Sultána. I'll make it the
chief's interest to stand my friend. I'll see more of Afghan life
than any being in the world ever saw before. Stay, stay, I must
write up my journal; where have I put my ink-bottle?"
Denis, now in wild spirits, wrote for about five minutes as if
writing for life; he then threw down his pen, and pushed the paper
from him. "That's enough for to-night, I shall have plenty of time
to-morrow to write up my story."
"Will he have plenty of time?" thought Walter to himself. "Is not my
gay, bold comrade beset with dangers not the less real because he
chooses to shut his eyes as he takes the leap which may land him--one
shrinks from asking _where_! I am the only Christian near him, the
only being who can speak to him of that soul which may so soon be
required. And yet, coward and faithless friend that I am, I sit, as
it were, with lips sealed, watching his career towards the precipice
over which he so soon may plunge with a laugh on his lips!"
"Dermot," said Walter, aloud; "even you must own that our lives are
uncertain."
"Yes; it's a toss up whether you and I ever see old Ireland again."
"Is it not well to be prepared for whatever may happen?"
"Yes; I've looked both to my guns and pistols," was Denis's reply.
"It was not that which I meant. I was thinking of what follows
death."
"You don't want me surely to set about making my will?" exclaimed
Denis. "It is not needed; if I die my estate must go to my brother."
"I am not speaking of worldly property. I was thinking that
you--that we both--need to know more of God's will, that we may be
ready, should He please to call us suddenly." Walter took his small
pocket Testament from his bosom. "I am going to read my evening
chapter; would you have any objection to my reading aloud?"
"None in the world," replied Denis, lightly; "but I can't promise to
listen."
Walter selected his chapter, and selected well. Never before had he
so realised the force of the expression, "Preaching as a dying man to
dying men." Walter knew that at that moment stealthy foes might be
creeping towards them under the cover of darkness, or that his
reading might be interrupted by a sudden volley from the thicket or
the heights above it. But the feeling of peril which solemnised the
young Englishman did not at all un-nerve him; Walter drank in the
meaning of each life-giving verse which he read. His companion's
perfect silence encouraged Walter, till--when he closed the book--he
turned to look at Dermot Denis, and saw him sunk in a deep slumber.