1 a vizier's daughter - Hazara.net

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A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR
plot, and his object in making it. Gratitude alone, he had thought, the
instinct man shares with the baser animals, should have bound the
miserable creature to him – but no. that man alone could be the culprit,
there was no one else. The official had, of course, never shown him or
told him anything about these private papers, but the box had not
infrequently been in the room, and sometimes open, while they had
been at work together, and sometimes he had been called awa y
suddenly to attend to some visitor, or some other matter of business,
and then the man must have found his opportunit y. The Chief Secretar y
saw it all now – saw his own folly. The miserable hound whose life he
had saved, and whom he had fed and clothed, had sold him to his
enemies, and for what? – a few rupees at the most, perhaps a winter
coat. It had often been done before. He had seen such things happen
over and over again during his years of residence in Afghanistan. There
was nothing unusual in the occurrence. He should have expected
nothing different from a Kabuli.
He still sat upon his prayer carpet, his hands still outstretched to
Heaven. He had prayed for light, and light had been sent. He had
sought guidance, a guide would surely be found. He was calm and
collected, and quite satisfied that this conversation that had taken place
so near was no mere chance. It was Heaven sent. He had but to follow.
He must escape, and that at once. But how? That was the next question.
He began thinking of where he could turn for a guide, and which would
be the shortest way out of the country. There was one route by which in
twent y-four hours he could have found himself on British soil. That
was by far the easiest, but it was also the most dangerous way. It was a
road along which there were Afghan guards at ever y turn – each having
to be satisfied as to his reason for being there, and the further he got
from Kabul the more difficult it would be to find an excuse. It was the
way many a courtier had tried to find freedom, only to meet with his
death. No, that was no use. Then there was the road by the ruby-mines
– that was a pretty safe one, if only he had had some excuse for going
there just now – but there was none, and so long a journey undertaken
on but trifling grounds at such a time could not fail to excite the ver y
suspicions he was most anxious to avoid. “I know the best way to do it,
and one of the most direct routes too,” he said to himself. “But I need a
guide for that, and where is a gu ide to be found?”
Who, indeed, could he trust? There were many among the hill
tribesmen who owed himself such debts of gratitude as no man surely
could forget. Men who owed him all the y possessed – life, and limb,
and property – and if he had had time he would have sent for some of
them, but which? That was another difficult point to decide; and then
he remember cases where men had trusted themselves to these very
hillmen, and had been sold by them to their enemies, after having
received large sums of money, and promises of more for taking them
safely out of the countr y. Whole histories of families and tribes that
has su nk from the greatest importance down to absolute insignificance,