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210 A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR the movement, and turning round in his bed, had said to himself: “A pious man that Secretary, he is up at his devotions alread y.” As four, all was prepared – the horses saddled, the breakfast read y – so Gul Begum called her master. “Have you not slept?” he asked, a little anxiously, seeing her ready to start. The girl flushed with pleasure. “Yes, Agha, I have slept, and well, but I woke early. So there is nothing for us to do now but to start when you have had some food.” He smiled as he looked at her. “You are a good boy,” he said gaily, “and know your business I have slept more soundly than I could have believed possible.” And soon they were in the saddle. CHAPTER XL FREE, FREE, AT LAST!
211 A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR “AGHA, we are free! Do you see that rock? That is the boundary line between the Ameer’s territory and ours. We are no longer in Afghanistan,” Gul Begum said suddenly. “We are free! Oh, Agha, we are free.” “You forget,” her companion replied, “it is all Afghanistan now – all ruled by the same king, and by the same laws. All is changed since last you passed that rock. All <strong>Hazara</strong> is now Afghanistan.” The girl sighed, but sadness could find no long resting-place in those glad eyes. “That may be – I suppose it is so,” she said, “but there is a difference somewhere, somehow. It ma y be in the air – it may be only in m y heart – but I feel different. Ever since I saw that rock in the distance, the word keeps ringing in my ears: Free – free – free.” The Chief Secretary turned suddenly and looked at her. “Oh, that is it, is it?” he said, a touch of something like sadness in his voice. “You are free here, you are at home – you are no longer my slave at all. You are your own mistress. Is that what you mean?” “I mean nothing of the sort,” the girl replied, looking down. “I was hardly thinking of m yself – certainly not of my own position as regards you. I was only thinking that here in this country there is no king who keeps his servants working day and night for him, and who, when they are overworked and cannot accomplish the tasks that are set them, blames and reproaches and imprisons them. Here you, Agha, are free because you have no master. I have often thought, in Kabul, that though you called yourself free, that yours, not ours, was the slaver y – a far worse bondage than that of the lowliest menial in your own household. Always working, alwa ys striving, never accomplishing, never satisfying.” “How do you know all this?” her master asked. “What makes you guess these things, girl?” “Agha, I know, because I feel,” and as she spoke she placed her hand upon her heart. “I was once free, and I know what the joys of freedom are; then I became a slave – your slave,” she said, lowering her voice, and dwelling with a certain tender lingering on the last two words; “and then I found that there is a joy in service as well as in freedom. But to be happy one’s service must be recognised, must be appreciated, or I, at least, could no longer serve.” “Then you think I appreciated your services, Gul Begum?” her master asked, looking at her more scrutinisingly than was his wont, and noting how the wind had caught her cheeks and heightened her colour.
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