"That arrangement will never do," said Walter, who had a good deal more common sense than his older companion. "My pony could not carry a mule's burden, and the other animal is overladen already. It is absolutely needful to leave something behind. We must part with the least important part of the luggage."
Dermot Denis was reluctant to part with anything. His weapons, of course, must be kept; his ammunition and provision for man and horse by the way, his cooking-vessels and cash—all were necessaries not to be left behind. But his choice cigars, his yellow-backed novels, crockery, glass, and plate, his looking-glass, dressing-case, brandy and champagne,—Denis made a fight for each article, was pathetic over his eau-de-cologne, and grudged his box of fine soap. A great deal of time was consumed in opening, unpacking, arranging, rearranging, and trying to force down lids on overflowing trunks that obstinately refused to be shut. It was long before the luggage was so readjusted, that one mule, with some help from the pony, could carry the needful part of what had been heavy burdens for two. More than one trunk had to be left behind, and a quantity of most heterogeneous articles strewed the ground—objects of great interest to curious spectators.
For, by twos and threes, a little crowd of most inquisitive Afghans had arrived on the spot. Bejewelled women appeared who had been carrying burdens—one, in addition, with a child seated on her hip, and another led by the hand. Most picturesque men, swathed in striped blankets, with long black hair hanging wildly over Jewish features, each with a gun in his hand, or a formidable knife stuck in the scarf which he wore as a belt. All looked as if they had never been washed in their lives, but would have made fine subjects for an artist. The articles on the ground were freely handled; an embroidered smoking-cap found its place on the head of a little urchin who had no clothing besides; the silver-topped bottles of the dressing-case were speedily appropriated, and vanished somewhere under the blankets. Denis was indignant at seeing his property disappearing under the very eyes of its owner.
"Walter, I say, drive these harpies away!" he exclaimed in an angry tone.
"We could not do so without using our weapons," replied Walter; "and were blood once shed, our lives would not be worth a day's purchase. In Afghanistan revenge is reckoned as a virtue."
"The Sahib had much better return," said one of the muleteers, who had been from the first most reluctant to advance.
"The Sahib is a great hero,—the Sahib never retreats," observed Hanif the Pathan, with a grin.
"Don't trust that man—he's an Afghan; he would urge you to go on," said Walter, as Denis looked to him for an explanation of words which, he could not understand.
"I need no urging—I'm resolved to go on; do you think me a weak girl to want to go back now? No, not if I had to go alone."
The Afghans not only used their eyes and their fingers, but they poured forth a volley of questions. "Who were the travellers? whence had they come? whither were they going? Were they merchants? were their camels behind them? why did they go without an escort of armed men?" Such, and many more, were the interrogations made on all sides. Walter had not time to translate half to his comrade.