1 a vizier's daughter - Hazara.net

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A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR
“Give you water?” said a heavy little man, no crueller nor fiercer than
the rest, but with a stolid immovable Hazara face, “give you water!
Look round and see the water you gave to us, look at our dead!”
“Yes, give him water,” a woman called out, “give him the water he
deserves, “and she stuffed his mouth with the blood -stained mud in
which he was lying. The poor fellow could not resent it, less still
resist. He sank back; but the fury of the people had been roused, and
they poured it forth on their suffering dying enemy.
“May you be tortured in hell, as you have tortured me to-day,” the
wretched man called out; “tortured with fire.”
“Ah fire!” shouted another, “a good idea of that; come, let us burn
him;” and so the y did – burnt him as he lay there completely at their
mercy. But they did not triumph long.
Suddenly shriek after shriek, the shrieks of children, rent the air – then
the cries of women.
“The dogs! The dog-wolves are on us! Fly to the houses, children, fly.”
But the children were paralysed with fear, and knew not where they
ran. The dogs were indeed on them – the huge Afghan dogs bred in
Kabul – half-wolf, half-boardhoud – creatures than which nothing
could be more bloodthirsty or more cruel, as the y sprang first on this
child and then on that, tearing them, wounding, and killing, but
stopping nowhere to do more. It was the work to which they were
trained b y their master, and they obeyed him well. The streets ran
blood. Then there came another sound – the sound of horses’ hoofs, the
voices of men, the clatter of arms, and Colonel Ferad Shah and his men
entered the village.
One glance, and all was clear to him. He saw the charred remains of
the wounded man, the corpses, the wounded, suffering, dying children,
but these did not appease him. His blood was hot, and he w as known all
over the country among his friends, as well as among his foes, to be the
most relentless, cruel monster, that ever assumed human shape.*
“Yes, cry, cr y! – You shall have something to cry for. Pull down that
straw,” he shouted. “Aye, bring the hay, that will burn as well. Set it
alight, here, quick, bring straw and lights. We’ll roast these swine
alive. We’ll give them a warm shelter. We’ll teach them how to treat us
in the future, these low Shiahs.”
But on what followed let us rather draw a veil. Enough than the village
streets ran blood, that the light of the burning stacks and houses
attracted the attention of the country side for miles around, that the
shrieks of the victims startled the returning shepherds, and made them