1 a vizier's daughter - Hazara.net

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A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR
“And paid them well, girl? Did you see that? Nothing is more
important now we are flying for our lives.”
“Agha, I did not give them all you gave me. I gave them their due.
More would have excited suspicion. As long as this is looked upon as
an ordinar y pilgrimage we are safe, even were we followed.”
Her master looked at her, surprised and pleased, but said nothing.
“Can you give us shelter for the night?” he asked the old guardian of
the tomb, when, after much shouting and rousing, the old man at length
opened the door.
“What! Mir Munshi Sahib, and at this time? What brings you here, and
almost unattended?”
“A pilgrimage, good Fakir,” was the reply, “but I am weary. Let me in.
I must sleep a few hours. I will commence my devotions at three, for
by four I must be in the saddle again. This is a long wa y from Kabul,
and Court business cannot be neglected.”
“That’s true, that’s true,” the old man said, “but I am feeble now and
cannot well rouse you at three. This boy of yours must do it for you.”
“Of course he can. Why, that’s what I’ve brought him for. He has no
other use,” the official said wearily. “Show us where we can rest and
put our horses, and then back to your bed, good friend. I am sorry to
disturb you so late.”
It was three o’clock. Even in her sleep Gul Begum was conscious of the
passing hours, but the Chief Secretar y slept on. He had had a trying
day, then a long ride in the cool evening among mountain p asses, all of
them several thousand feet above the level of the sea, so he slept the
sleep of exhausted nature, and, moreover, the reposeful sleep of
confidence. He never doubted that he would be wakened in time.
Gul Begum had had a trying da y too. Are no t the hours of watching and
waiting in dread uncertainty harder to bear than the active dangerous
ones? Thus had she sat and waited, listening to each sound – dreading
yet longing for each footstep on the road to stop at her master’s door.
She had worked hard too, and had ridden far – after four long years of
captivity – but love is stronger than fear, stronger than fatigue,
stronger than aught save death.
After three hours’ sound sleep she woke, and woke refreshed – ready
for the flight that was before her. There were a good many things to do.
Her master’s prayers to prepare for, the horses to look after and feed,
and their own food to get ready. Softly, softly, she went out into the
clear bright night; not so softly, however, but that the old Fakir heard