"One wearing almost the form of an angel is developing the instincts of a tigress," muttered Walter to himself. "Eyes that can express so much of feminine tenderness can look complacently at what a Christian girl would turn from with sickening horror! A heart made to reverence what is holy and love what is good, a kindly—yes, I am sure of it—a kindly affectionate heart, is filled with bigotry and pride, and a debasing hunger after plunder won by red-handed violence! Oh, what hath not Satan wrought in this miserable land; and not only here, but over the widest tracks of this fallen but beautiful earth! Millions of victims are lying in worse than Egyptian bondage, whilst those who could carry to them the message of deliverance are, as it were, quietly pasturing their sheep amongst the comforts of civilised life. Oh for the voice from the burning bush that gave His commission to Moses! Oh for the power to say to the murderer of souls—Let My people go that they may serve Me. Lord! how long, how long shall Thy servants rest in selfish indifference whilst generation after generation perishes in darkness and sin! If it please Thee to prolong my life, let it be the one object of that life to glorify Thee by rescuing souls through the power of Thy spirit; it is the object best worth living for—the object best worth dying for! Where does the fiery pillar lead the believer but along the path consecrated by the track of the Saviour's own footsteps. He came to seek and to save the lost."
Very fervently did Walter Gurney plead on that tempestuous night for Sultána and her guilt-stained race. The sense of personal danger was almost lost in the intense realisation of the spiritual peril of others. In wrestling supplication on that wild, stormy night the hours wore away. Walter felt himself in the immediate presence of One who could say to the wilder storm of human passion, the sweeping blast of satanic power, Peace, be still! Whatever outward circumstances may be, these are blessed hours that are spent alone with God; they are hours whose result will be seen through countless ages, when corresponding to the fervour of prayer will be the rapture of praise!
Walter had no difficulty on this night in arousing Dermot Denis. Partly on account of the boisterous weather, partly from anticipation of a possible attack, the young Irishman's sleep had been broken and disturbed. Ever and anon he would start, as if his mind were still on the watch.
"It's miserably cold!" said Denis, as he rose to take his turn as watcher. "The wind howls and yells and shrieks as if bad spirits were riding on the blast! This wretched rug is but a poor substitute for the fur cloak carried off by that Afghan thief!"
"It is a good deal better than nothing," remarked the shivering Walter, as he stretched his weary limbs on the cold, bare ground.
The wind lulled as the morning drew near, and Walter was able to sleep. Just at daybreak he was suddenly wakened by the loud report of a pistol—another and another. Springing to his feet, Walter beheld Denis struggling on the ground in the midst of a throng of fierce Afghans. Gurney rushed to the aid of his friend, but was instantly struck down by a blow from the butt end of a musket. Long Afghan knives were gleaming around; both the European travellers thought that their last hour was come. Resistance was hopeless, though Denis had wounded two of the robbers ere he fell overpowered by numbers.
"Kill, kill the Kafirs!" was the cry.
"Don't kill—keep us for ransom—take us to the chief Assad!" gasped forth Walter with difficulty, for an Afghan's strong hand was griping his throat.
The word "ransom" acted like a charm upon the assailants; it was passed from mouth to mouth, the thirst for gold overpowering even the thirst for blood. Happily neither of the Afghans whom Denis had shot were mortally wounded, or his life would assuredly have been the forfeit. His bold but useless resistance aggravated the severity of the treatment which he now received at the hands of his cruel captors. Both the prisoners were plundered of their watches, and Denis, who alone wore rings, had them violently wrenched from his fingers. He was stripped to the waist, the gold studs in his shirt exciting the cupidity of the Afghans, who hoped to find more treasure on the person of one so rich. Denis was struck on the face, having first been deprived of his handsome topi; his arms were tied tightly behind him, his struggles making the cords cut almost into his flesh. Then, as he lay writhing on the ground, the unfortunate traveller was brutally kicked by his persecutors, who laughed at the vain fury of their victim, who, in his own language, was pouring on them abuse and imprecations.
Walter, partly on account of his poverty, and partly on account of his quietness, had less to endure. When a rude robber was about to strip him of his well-worn coat, a younger and more pleasant-looking Afghan interfered.