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.”