90 A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR exhausted were their mothers and relations at length that in most cases they became almost thankful to be rid of their burdens. Not so Gul Begum; she nearly broke her heart. She mourned her little sister, her flower, her favourite, more deeply than did the mother who had given her birth; but still they journeyed on. CHAPTER XVII SELECTED ON the afternoon of the fifth day, wear y, worn, and travel-stained, the exiles saw a great camp in the distance – white tents extending in all directions over a well-watered plain where the corn stood high and green above the rich earth which, year after year, yields such abundant crops. A motley crowd indeed had set out from the village among the <strong>Hazara</strong> hills, but it was an emaciated, haggard, exhausted crowd that came into camp that evening. Some of the older women, on the excuse of
91 A VIZIER’S DAUGHTER – A TALE OF THE HAZARA WAR remaining with the children who could drag their wear y limbs no further, had begged to stay behind and watch their little ones die, promising to rejoin the party as soon as the last struggle should be over; and the soldiers had let them stay, partly under the firm conviction that, like the little ones whose death was inevitable, these feeble old bodies would never reach their destination, and partly also because the y knew that as slaves their market value would be absolutely nil. But if the oldest of the party had dropped out from among the ranks and were sitting b y the roadside in the last state of exhaustion, others seemed somehow to have taken their places in the most extraordinar y way. The middle-aged women, many of whom had been stout and well built, if not comely, when they had set out, were now mere shadows, their tanned and wrinkled skins hanging in folds across their but too apparent bones. Even the young women looked twice their age, and many were worn with grief as well as suffering. Amo ng these was Gul Begum. Her father was her idol, her ideal, and he, thank God, was so far safe; but little Marwari had been her darling, her comforter and adorer. She missed her every hour. In all her sufferings in the days that were past it had been of the little sister she had thought, and the warm soft hand slipped tenderly in hers had been her so lace during many a sad and anxious hour, and now she was gone, gone where the sun could never scorch her more, where no stones would cut her little aching feet, and where there were rivers and fountains in plent y to slake that burning unquenchable thirst. As she had trudged on the tears had chased each other down her sunburnt, wind-tanned cheeks, and had fallen one after the other on her travel-stained skirt and shawl, but no sob had escaped her – only the tears welled up and fell, then welled up and fell again – she was too tired for more; nature could make no further effort. Properly clad, and at her own leisure, she could have accomplished the distance in half the time and without so much as turning a hair; but this weary, steady march, barefoot, all through the scorching noontide, with the helpless little ones depending on her when their own strength flagged, had taxed even her strength to the ver y uttermost. The night she arrived in camp, however, she slept – and slept soundly – and next morning, except that her feet were both swollen and cut about by the stones, she felt fresher and brighter than she had done for some days. Shereen, too, and many of the other girls, had recovered their spirits and had begun wondering what the next move was to be. They had had an abundant supper over night, so for the first time for several days the y were not hungry. Besides, they were not under nearly such strict rule as they had been, and some even talked of flight, but it was mere talk. Not one had either strength or courage to attempt it, and, moreover, for all the apparent carelessness, they felt that the y were closely watched. Towards noon there seemed more stir about the camp.
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