1 a vizier's daughter - Hazara.net

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A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR
but had been disco vered in the ver y act of betraying her father, and
who would, she was sure, be ready at any time to lead his country’s
enemies into the most secret fastnesses of their mountain homes, not
merely to save his own neck (by going and taking refuge in Kabul he
could have done that), but to earn the paltry sums of money with which
any Hazara mean enough to accept them was being bribed by the
Afghan commanders. And this man, had thought to be her husband ! She
shivered as she recalled the scenes she had gone through, and then
shivered again as she heard the cries of the tortured wretch outside.
“He is receiving his just reward,” she murmured. But still she felt sick
and faint and longed to run awa y and hide herself, longed to take back
her angr y words, even though her doing so were to release her enemy.
Suddenly an Afghan soldier entered the room where she sat crouching,
and trying to shut out those awful cries from the ears of her little
sister, who, hearing the noise, and general commotion had sought
refuge in her arms.
“Is your name Gul Begum, woman?” he asked authoritatively.
“Yes, it is,” she said without rising. “What do you want with me?”
“Stand up when I speak to you, and answer my questions truthfu lly, or
it will be the worse for you. Do you hear?” the man went on.
The girl rose, wrapped her little sister in a quilt, and made her
comfortable, then went and learnt against the door, looking out into the
night.
“Are you a married woman or single?” the soldier interrogated.
“I am not married,” the girl said, almost inaudibly.
“That man there, that Mohamed Jan,” pointing in the direction of the
shed, “says you are his wife, and begs as a reward for his services to us
that you be restored to him.”
“He lies,” she said again, in the same low tones. “He wished to make
me his wife when I went on a visit to his house some time ago, because
he wanted the dowry my father would have given with me, but I am not
his wife and never will be. I would rather die.”
“Is there any one here who can prove that you are not his wife?” the
man asked again, not so roughly this time. Perhaps though he was too
hard to be touched by her evident distress, he was not altogether
insensible to her beauty.
“Let him bring the witnesses of the marriage,” she said quietly, feeling
that she had gained a point somewhere, without knowing exactly
where.