THE STRUGGLE COMES.
Walter's strange interview with the child of the Eagle's Nest had
strengthened the missionary spirit in the young man's breast. He
went over in thought every circumstance of their brief meeting during
the long hours of his night-watch. On this occasion Walter felt no
disposition to sleep; physical discomfort, combined with mental
anxiety to take away all desire for repose. The wind had arisen,
and, rushing through the pass as through a funnel, extinguished the
fire, put out even the hurricane-lamp, and chilled the frame of the
young sentinel. Dermot Denis, with characteristic thoughtlessness,
had appropriated the rug of his friend. Though the day had been hot,
there was sharp keenness in the night wind, and young Gurney missed
his usual protection. It was only by motion that he could keep up
any degree of warmth. As Walter paced up and down, now facing the
furious blast, now almost swept down by its violence, watching the
wild lightning-illumined clouds above him, as they seemed in their
rapid course to blot out star after star, Walter's spirit yearned
over the Afghan child in the power of the king of darkness.
"One wearing almost the form of an angel is developing the instincts
of a tigress," muttered Walter to himself. "Eyes that can express so
much of feminine tenderness can look complacently at what a Christian
girl would turn from with sickening horror! A heart made to
reverence what is holy and love what is good, a kindly--yes, I am
sure of it--a kindly affectionate heart, is filled with bigotry and
pride, and a debasing hunger after plunder won by red-handed
violence! Oh, what hath not Satan wrought in this miserable land;
and not only here, but over the widest tracks of this fallen but
beautiful earth! Millions of victims are lying in worse than
Egyptian bondage, whilst those who could carry to them the message of
deliverance are, as it were, quietly pasturing their sheep amongst
the comforts of civilised life. Oh for the voice from the burning
bush that gave His commission to Moses! Oh for the power to say to
the murderer of souls--_Let My people go that they may serve Me_.
Lord! how long, how long shall Thy servants rest in selfish
indifference whilst generation after generation perishes in darkness
and sin! If it please Thee to prolong my life, let it be the one
object of that life to glorify Thee by rescuing souls through the
power of Thy spirit; it is the object best worth living for--the
object best worth dying for! Where does the fiery pillar lead the
believer but along the path consecrated by the track of the Saviour's
own footsteps. He came to seek and to save the lost."
Very fervently did Walter Gurney plead on that tempestuous night for
Sultána and her guilt-stained race. The sense of personal danger was
almost lost in the intense realisation of the spiritual peril of
others. In wrestling supplication on that wild, stormy night the
hours wore away. Walter felt himself in the immediate presence of
One who could say to the wilder storm of human passion, the sweeping
blast of satanic power, _Peace, be still_! Whatever outward
circumstances may be, these are blessed hours that are spent alone
with God; they are hours whose result will be seen through countless
ages, when corresponding to the fervour of prayer will be the rapture
of praise!
Walter had no difficulty on this night in arousing Dermot Denis.
Partly on account of the boisterous weather, partly from anticipation
of a possible attack, the young Irishman's sleep had been broken and
disturbed. Ever and anon he would start, as if his mind were still
on the watch.
"It's miserably cold!" said Denis, as he rose to take his turn as
watcher. "The wind howls and yells and shrieks as if bad spirits
were riding on the blast! This wretched rug is but a poor substitute
for the fur cloak carried off by that Afghan thief!"
"It is a good deal better than nothing," remarked the shivering
Walter, as he stretched his weary limbs on the cold, bare ground.
The wind lulled as the morning drew near, and Walter was able to
sleep. Just at daybreak he was suddenly wakened by the loud report
of a pistol--another and another. Springing to his feet, Walter
beheld Denis struggling on the ground in the midst of a throng of
fierce Afghans. Gurney rushed to the aid of his friend, but was
instantly struck down by a blow from the butt end of a musket. Long
Afghan knives were gleaming around; both the European travellers
thought that their last hour was come. Resistance was hopeless,
though Denis had wounded two of the robbers ere he fell overpowered
by numbers.
"Kill, kill the Kafirs!" was the cry.
"Don't kill--keep us for ransom--take us to the chief Assad!" gasped
forth Walter with difficulty, for an Afghan's strong hand was griping
his throat.
The word "ransom" acted like a charm upon the assailants; it was
passed from mouth to mouth, the thirst for gold overpowering even the
thirst for blood. Happily neither of the Afghans whom Denis had shot
were mortally wounded, or his life would assuredly have been the
forfeit. His bold but useless resistance aggravated the severity of
the treatment which he now received at the hands of his cruel
captors. Both the prisoners were plundered of their watches, and
Denis, who alone wore rings, had them violently wrenched from his
fingers. He was stripped to the waist, the gold studs in his shirt
exciting the cupidity of the Afghans, who hoped to find more treasure
on the person of one so rich. Denis was struck on the face, having
first been deprived of his handsome topi; his arms were tied tightly
behind him, his struggles making the cords cut almost into his flesh.
Then, as he lay writhing on the ground, the unfortunate traveller was
brutally kicked by his persecutors, who laughed at the vain fury of
their victim, who, in his own language, was pouring on them abuse and
imprecations.
Walter, partly on account of his poverty, and partly on account of
his quietness, had less to endure. When a rude robber was about to
strip him of his well-worn coat, a younger and more pleasant-looking
Afghan interfered.
"Leave him alone," said the young man. "I trow he is the son of the
Santgunge Padri, who has shown kindness ere now to Afghans.
"I would not leave him the rag, Ali Khan," cried the man, "if it were
fit for my wear. I shall find something better worth having yonder,"
and off he rushed to join the group who were ransacking Denis's trunk.
Walter was glad indeed to retain his garment, and with it his little
Testament, and the leaves of his father's translation, to him a
treasure more precious than gold. He, however, had his arms bound
behind him, and received his share of Moslem abuse, in which Ali Khan
did not join. The captives were witnesses to the glee with which
their property was disposed of, not without a considerable amount of
loud talking and wrangling over the spoils. The muleteers had fled
at the first alarm; their animals were, of course, the booty of the
captors. Two Afghans mounted on Denis's horse; how he longed to see
it plunge and throw them! The trunks were cut open with daggers, and
rudely emptied of their contents. There was a fierce scramble for
the gold and silver; a bottle of brandy was surreptitiously carried
off beneath the blanket of a follower of the False Prophet, a
mountaineer who had learnt to appreciate the fiery poison. Denis's
fine embroidered shirts caused a great amount of mirth, and were
pulled over _kurtas_ (vests) that had been worn day and night
unchanged for years.
When the work of pillage was over, the prisoners were made to rise
and accompany their captors to the copse in which Sultána had had her
adventure. They were led through it to a steep and precipitous path
which was familiar to the Pathans. With their hands bound behind
them it was almost impossible for the Europeans to climb so rude an
ascent, though both were agile men; but when they paused they were
pushed and kicked by the Afghans behind them.
"You must have the use of your hands, Feringhee," said Ali Khan,
cutting Walter's cords with his knife.
"Show the same mercy to my unfortunate friend, brave youth!" cried
Walter, the sufferings of Denis distressing him more than his own.
"He has shed the blood of my kinsmen; he shall never find mercy from
me!" was the stern reply of Ali Khan. "He is like the wild beast
that struggles and bites when caught in the snare; thou art calm as a
man who submits to fate."
It was a matter of surprise to Walter himself, as well as to the
young mountaineer, that he could preserve such composure under
circumstances so painful. We need not seek far for the cause of such
calmness. One who habitually looks to the fiery cloudy pillar for
guidance, finds that it gives light in the darkest night of trial,
shade under the fiercest glow of temptation. All that the Christian
holds most dear is beyond the reach of robbers; he can never lose his
all. What marvel if that man is patient who knows that all things
work together for his good,--and brave when assured that death itself
is but the angel that uncloses the gate of paradise.
It was far otherwise with the miserable Denis, who, on account of his
bonds, was utterly unable to keep up with Walter and the foremost
Afghans, who soon passed beyond his view. As he could not help
himself with his hands, his tumbles and slips on a path which at some
places "scarce gave footing for the goat," afforded his tormentors a
cause for mirth and added brutality. When, after a painful fall of
several feet, Denis obstinately refused to move, he was goaded to
stagger again to his feet by the points of daggers.
"Hell itself could not be worse than this! Hell must be like this!"
groaned the tortured man. "The company of tormenting demons, the
memory of past joys lost for ever, and the fierce anguish of knowing
that my own mad folly has brought me to this,--earth has no misery
like mine." Passages from Scripture hardly ever recurred to the mind
of the spoilt child of fortune; but in his anguish Denis did think of
one who had been clothed in purple and fine linen, one who had fared
sumptuously every day, and at last had to make his bed in the flames.
The idea did flash across Denis's mind, "My fate is something like
his."
The savage Pathans had at last to cut the bonds of Denis; but not
from pity, but a selfish fear that their captive, by dying on the
way, might escape from their hands without paying a ransom. The
latter part of that terrible journey was to Denis like a horrible
dream. It was in an almost swooning state that the once
splendid-looking young Irishman was led into the rough hill-fort
which, from its lofty position, was called the Eagle's Nest.