A DARING ATTEMPT.
It may have been simple caprice, or even the spirit of contradiction,
or possibly a more generous emotion roused by the sight of wrong done
to one who had rescued his child, that made Assad Khan now treat his
wounded captive with something like kindness. Whatever was the cause
of the chief's conduct, Walter benefited by the change. He was
raised from the ground and placed on a charpai. The old barber, who
in the fort acted the part of a surgeon, which he did with skill
acquired by much practice, dressed the wound in the shoulder, bound
up the ankle, and applied a lotion of herbs to reduce the swelling
which had already begun. A brass vessel filled with milk, and an
abundance of delicious fruit, were brought for the suffering youth;
and with a consideration which surprised him, some of the contents of
his own plundered carpet-bag, which afforded Walter the relief of a
change of clothes. Assad Khan asked his captive whether he preferred
remaining below, or being carried up to the room which he had
occupied with the other Feringhee. Walter unhesitatingly chose to
return to Denis. By the chief's order he was carried up on the
charpai, and over him Assad Khan threw a large and handsome wrap,
something between a rug and a blanket, acquired--we need not inquire
how.
Denis, who had watched the latter part of the proceedings from the
top of the stair, was really distressed at the sight of his injured
friend. Walter was gratified at beholding his companion's unfeigned
sorrow, for he saw unbidden tears rising to the Irishman's eyes. But
when the Afghans who had carried up the wounded captive had quitted
the room, and the prisoners were left to themselves, the deepest
source of Denis's trouble became apparent.
"The most unlucky thing that could have happened!" he cried. "You
are lamed for ever so long. I know what a sprain is, for I had one
when my horse came down in leaping a ditch. It's worse than breaking
a bone. You won't be able for weeks to do more than hop round the
room?"
"Not a very wide circle to hop round," observed Walter with a smile.
"No joking matter!" cried Denis impatiently. "How can you make your
escape with me if you are utterly lame?"
"Lame or not, I see no way of either of us making our escape,"
observed Walter.
"But I do--at least I will. Do you think that I am going to wait
here like Patience on a monument grinning at Afghans, till a ransom
is paid that would make me a beggar?"
Walter was too weary to reply. He felt utterly exhausted by the
effects of his fall. The youth fell into a deep sleep which lasted
for hours, and awoke, though still in pain, greatly revived and
refreshed.
During the sleep of his comrade, how busy had been the thoughts of
Dermot Denis, what a struggle had been going on in his mind! Denis
was not much given to thinking, except in the way of building castles
in the air, or forming ingenious schemes for accomplishing some plan
which he had taken into his head. Almost new to him was the exercise
of considering whether what he wished to do were right or wrong; but
his judgment was forced on that exercise now. Denis had two courses
open before him, and the one on which his heart was set would involve
an action which his better nature knew to be base--desertion of the
faithful and generous friend whom he himself, by his folly and
self-will, had drawn into danger.
"Walter is evidently a favourite here; no one would injure him," said
Denis to himself, as he strode up and down the narrow space of his
prison. "To remain beside him would do him no good. Were I once in
India I could take effectual means for his rescue. It is better for
him that I should fly."
Thus, by arguing with himself, Denis tried to drown the inward voice
of honour--it could scarcely be called conscience--that told him that
it would be cruel and base to leave Walter to the fury of savages
baulked of their golden prize, and that it was selfishness that
prompted the wish to do so. Denis's most effectual argument was the
strength of his own desire. What world-wide fame he would acquire by
accomplishing so daring a feat as escaping from a den of robbers!
What a book of thrilling adventures he would write, which would not
only be eagerly read in Britain, Ireland, and India, but would be
translated into foreign tongues. The title of "Afghanistan Denis,"
the traveller who made the wonderful escape from the Eagle's Nest,
would be more gratifying to his pride than could be the ribbon of the
Bath. Thus reflected Denis, and he had succeeded in almost
persuading himself that black was white, before Walter awoke from his
sleep.
"How are you, old boy?" inquired Denis.
"Better, very much better. I cannot be too thankful to Him who has
brought good out of evil. Denis, I feel such a hope----" Walter
paused, for he was conscious that he was speaking to one who had no
sympathy with any such hope.
"What is it?" inquired the Irishman; "I thought that you always left
the hoping to me."
"I hope that I have been led here to do some good to these wild
Afghans, and specially to that most interesting child Sultána."
"Do you mean that you have been self-appointed to act as a kind of
honorary missionary in the Eagle's Nest--a shepherd--or rather a
wolf-herd to a gang of Afghan robbers?"
"God can make use of the weakest instruments," said Walter, rather
speaking to himself than to Denis. "It was certainly a mysterious
Providence that led me here." Walter was thinking of the fiery
cloudy pillar which he had prayerfully sought to follow.
"If any one can do good here, you will," said Denis; "the ruffians
seem to be amazingly fond of your singing; you have certainly a
capital voice. Do you think you could give the Afghans a little of
your chanting now?"
Walter was surprised at such a proposal coming from Denis. He
himself felt little equal to any bodily effort; but his voice was the
one talent left to Walter in his prison, and he desired to use it to
the uttermost for his Master. The young man let Denis draw his
charpai to a position in front of the open door, so that Walter, by
raising himself to a sitting posture, commanded a view of the
court-yard, and looked directly down on the two wounded men. Ali
Khan's expression of pleasure at seeing him, rewarded Walter for the
little effort which he had made.
"Leave your blanket with me," said Dermot Denis. "The afternoon is
so hot, you cannot possibly want it." Scarcely waiting for a word of
consent, Denis carried off the wrap to a corner of the room which was
quite out of view of the court-yard.
Walter's conduct on the late trying occasion had made a favourable
impression on some of the Afghans. He was regarded as a gallant
youth, who had scorned to deny his faith, even with a dagger at his
throat. Whether that faith were true or false was a matter of utter
indifference to many of the dwellers in the fort; they knew that
Assad Khan had called the Moulvie--whatever in Pushtoo is equivalent
to a humbug--and had turned him out of the place; what were they that
they should dispute the judgment of their chief? Thus Walter began
his singing under more favourable auspices than before, and had a
larger circle of listeners. The prisoner not only chanted the
account of the Prodigal Son, but was able to give a simple practical
exposition of that story which perhaps, of all the Lord's parables,
goes most directly to the listener's heart. Pain and weariness were
forgotten; Walter was full of animation; he felt that he was giving
the message of salvation to those who now heard for the first time
that there is a Father in Heaven, ready to welcome His prodigals home.
Young Gurney sang and spoke for more than an hour; indeed, as long as
his strength would hold out. An Afghan then came up the stair with a
meal, which was a better one than Assad Khan had ever before sent to
his captives.
"Take it from his hands--don't let the fellow come in!" cried Denis
from his corner. "Tell him to close the door; we've had enough of
the Afghans for this day at least."
Walter translated the request into Pushtoo; the food was placed on
the charpai, and the door closed, but not locked. Walter turned to
see why Denis delayed coming to share the dinner, and beheld with
surprise the occupation in which his comrade was engaged.
Denis had that morning discovered a penknife in the pocket of
Walter's coat, which he wore. It was to the Irishman a prize of
priceless value. That penknife, with patient toil, he had been
plying during the whole of the time that Walter had been engaged in
missionary work.
"What are you doing?" exclaimed the astonished Walter; "cutting
my--or rather the chief's blanket into strips!"
"Hist! I am preparing a rope."
"You are not dreaming of attempting the descent!"
"Not dreaming, but resolving and preparing," replied Denis, too much
engaged--perhaps too much ashamed--to lift up his eyes.
Walter was deeply wounded, far more than he cared to show. He had
already had reason to know that the former hero of his fancy was a
far less noble being than he had believed him to be; he saw that
Denis was thoughtless and selfish; but Walter would have indignantly
repudiated the idea of his fellow-captive being able thus to desert a
helpless, suffering friend, had he heard it from any lips but the
Irishman's own. "_Put not your trust in princes, or in any child of
men,_" thought Walter. "I would not, for all the gold of the Indies,
have left him to bear the consequences of any flight of mine from
this place."
"Don't wait dinner for me!" cried Denis; "I can find my way to my
mouth by starlight, but cannot spare one second of daylight for my
work, for one strip carelessly cut might cost me a broken neck."
"Will your rope be long enough?" asked Walter curtly.
"Thirty-six strips, each six feet long; that will reach some way
down, even allowing for the knots," replied Denis.
"Can you trust your knots?"
"Most perfectly; I am famous for knots, I make them tighter than even
those of wedlock."
A long pause of silence followed. It was broken by the impatient
Denis.
"I say, Walter, don't dawdle so over your food; eat fast, and have
done with it. I could get on twice as rapidly if you held the cloth
whilst I cut it. The sun has almost set."
Walter did not refuse his help. Somewhat gloomily and silently he
assisted the Irishman at his work. Denis laboured energetically; the
strips were all divided at last, just as it became too dark to direct
the knife.
Then came the tying of the knots. Denis strained them with all his
might to be sure that they would not slip. Such work could be done
in semi-darkness. It was by feeling, not by sight, that the rope was
fastened to the iron hook in the wall, and first the end, then the
remaining length let down through the window. During the last hour
scarcely a word had been spoken.
"Denis, if you make your way down in safety, how will you find any
path to the road?"
"Trust an Irishman for finding his way; it's an instinct," was the
reply.
"Will your strength suffice for the journey on foot? You are likely
to be pursued."
"Not till morning, at least," said Denis; "and to-morrow I shall be
safe in India. I have strength enough for anything short of carrying
off this fort on my shoulders. I have, ere now, walked fifty miles
for a wager, and on the second day of our journey, thanks to that
limping mule, we did not go far. But I'll prepare myself for my long
trudge by a hurried meal ere I start."
Denis ate with feverish haste the food which he could not see. His
dinner was despatched in three minutes. What remained he thrust into
his pocket. "Now, I'm ready to be off!" he exclaimed; "hurrah for
freedom and home!"
"Dermot," said Walter, earnestly, "we are about to part, probably
never again to meet in this world. You are bound on a most dangerous
journey, and I----" he cared not to finish the sentence. "Let us
once more kneel down together, and commend ourselves, soul and body,
to the care of a merciful God."
"Oh, I've no time for prayer!" cried Denis, impatiently; "you pray
enough for us both. Now for a start! The first step is what puzzles
me most--how to get through yon hole, seeing that my feet must go
first, for I must not descend head downwards. But where there's a
will there's a way!"
To facilitate his climb to the window, Denis dragged the charpai
beneath it; but even when raised upon this, he could not bring his
feet to the required elevation, though clinging to the rope to help
him. The unexpected mechanical difficulty irritated the impetuous
young man.
"Walter, I must climb on your shoulder."
"Perhaps you will remember that I am wounded," said Walter, coldly.
"Of course I don't mean your wounded shoulder; just stand up. Oh, I
forget you are lame--how very provoking! Still you can give me some
help."
At the cost of much suffering, the help was given; without it,
notwithstanding his agility, and the desperate efforts which he made,
Denis could not have accomplished his purpose. With one foot planted
on the unwounded shoulder, maintaining his balance by means of the
rope, Denis contrived to protrude the other foot through the hole.
To make the first follow it was a feat painfully hard to accomplish,
and every unsuccessful attempt caused actual agony to Walter. At
length the long limbs of Denis were in outer air. But another
annoyance was to be encountered. The width of the aperture hardly
admitted the passage of shoulders so broad as those of the young
Irishman. Denis pushed, struggled, gasped and groaned, sorely
grazing his skin against the rough sides of the hole. Most terrible
indeed would be his fate if he remained fixed as in a vice, his head
and shoulders within the prison, his feet dangling helplessly in the
air. For some minutes--terrible minutes--Denis was utterly unable to
get in or out. The drops burst forth on his brow, as much from the
dread that he would not be able to force his way through, as from the
frantic efforts which he made to do so. At last--at last through the
hole which had been so completely blocked up by the form of Denis as
to leave the room in utter darkness, Walter could see the stars once
more. There was a head still visible, then hands clinging to the
knotted line; then they too disappeared--Dermot Denis was free!
Walter listened with breathless attention for any sound from below.
He heard but the screech of the owl pursuing his nightly flight; even
that familiar sound made him start. Then surely there was something
like a crash on the brushwood low down. Had Denis reached the bottom
of the descent? Walter had no means of judging by sight, but he got
hold of the rope not far from the hook, and by pulling it ascertained
that it was hanging loose, not strained tight by the weight of a man.
Dermot must either have climbed down or have fallen,--which?
"Better unloose the knot now, and throw down the rope after him, that
no clue remain as to how he made his escape," thought Walter.
He could not unloose the knot, but groped in the dark for the
penknife. Walter's sprained ankle made every movement painful. The
penknife was found at last, left open on the floor by Denis. Walter,
standing on the charpai, cut the knot which he could not untie, and
the end of the rope which had been fastened to it was drawn through
the hole by the weight of the rest.
Walter could now do no more but prepare his soul by prayer, and his
body by rest, for whatever the morrow might bring. He was engaged in
fervent devotion, when a rude tramping on the stair and the sound of
voices broke the stillness of midnight. The door was roughly thrown
open. At the hour when he was least expected, Assad Khan, attended
by men bearing torches, and one small form gliding noiselessly
behind, entered the prisoners' room.