"He did not—it was I who stole your kid!" exclaimed Sultána; "I was like Eve,—the harm comes from me, and if they die, I have killed them!" The hot tears which filled and brimmed over the little girl's eyes were tears of repentance. For the first time in her life the Afghan felt conviction of sin, the sin of breaking a commandment of God and incurring His wrath. Not an hour before Sultána had been utterly ignorant of its nature, but what Walter had written on a child's heart now seemed to flash forth in letters of fire. Sultána saw in the wounds, and heard in the groans, the result of sin—her own sin!
This recognition of sin and its nature may seem but the alphabet in spiritual knowledge; but, alas! how many called Christians have never learnt it! A vague acknowledgment that all are sinners, is very different indeed from the heart's confession, I have Sinned! Where repentance has never been known, oh how weak is faith and how cold is love! The sense of sin makes faith look up to a Saviour; the joy of receiving pardon makes love pour forth her rich offering of self-sacrifice at His feet. They love much who truly feel that they have been forgiven much.
And another lesson had also been learnt by the quick pupil, the intelligent Afghan child. With the bright drops flowing down her cheeks, Sultána ran up to the wounded men who had been laid on charpais in the court-yard, ready for the rough surgery of the barber. The girl stripped the silver bracelets from her slender wrists, and silently laid them beside the bleeding forms of Mir Ghazan and Ali Khan. Then slowly, and sadly Sultána returned to the zenana apartments above to receive the chastisement which she expected—not so much for her mischievous exploit, as for giving away her jewels. The poor child had only the comfort of knowing that she had done what she could in the way of reparation, and had done it at once.
Dermot Denis was somewhat mortified and ruffled at the result of his interview with Sultána. She was but a pretty, ignorant savage after all, he said, and was probably not to be trusted. He would rather, he averred, depend for means of escape on his own courage and skill. But how even his powers could effect his purpose was a difficult problem to solve. The outer gate was invariably secured at night, and would form an impassable barrier. The court-yard was never quite empty; or if for a few minutes it appeared to be so, who could tell how many eyes were looking forth from the recesses beyond the pillars or the trellis-covered apertures which probably lighted the zenana? Thus on the court-yard side there was clearly scarcely the faintest chance of escape. On the opposite side, where the aperture served as a window, the precipice seemed to preclude all hope; unless, indeed, a rope could be procured long enough, and strong enough to support a man of some weight as far as a clump of brushwood, from which, if active, he might possibly clamber down to more level ground. How could Denis contrive to procure such a rope? He had in the morning made an attempt to sound Ali Khan on the subject, having learnt from Walter the Pushtoo word for a rope, but the young Afghan either could not or would not understand him. Ali Khan had probably too much regard for his own neck to hazard it by aiding the prisoner's plans; and even had such not been the case, his present wounded condition precluded his giving the slightest assistance.
Denis lay awake till past midnight plotting and planning, resolved to escape in time to stop the sending of the immense sum of money required by Assad Khan for his ransom. The young Irishman fell at length into a sleep prolonged for hours after sunrise, and so profound that it was not broken by sounds which must have startled from slumber almost anyone but himself. Denis was so accustomed to rude noises from the court-yard, that the wildest uproar would scarcely have roused him. What the sounds were will be told in the following chapter.
CHAPTER XII.
THE HOUR OF PERIL.
At daybreak there was an arrival in the Eagle's Nest. The great gate was opened earlier than usual to admit a travelling Moulvie.* Walter, who was as usual an early riser, witnessed the entrance of the holy man, who was received with respect. The Englishman soon saw the effect of the presence of a religious teacher in the place, one who had the prestige of a Hajji.** The Afghans in the fort had been exceedingly lax in the performance of the outward forms of their religion; their only worship had appeared to be that of gold. There had been no apparent reading of the Koran; no Muezzin had sounded the call to prayer. But now, as Walter looked down on the court-yard, he saw prayer-carpets spread, and the Moulvie, with his face turned towards Mecca, going through the formal ceremonials which Mohammedanism prescribes. He was now on his knees, anon with his forehead touching the ground, then rising and bowing the orthodox number of times, whilst some Afghans behind him imitated the Moulvie's movements, and repeated after him that which was rather an enumeration of divine attributes than what we should recognise as anything like prayer. The whole ceremony was almost like a drill exercise, and had as little of true devotion in it as the movements of soldiers on parade. And yet these sons of Islam looked upon it as a means of compounding for their sins; the unscrupulous robber, the red-handed murderer, was yet a "true believer," and looked upon paradise as the reward of his cold and heartless observance of forms.
* Religious instructor.
** One who has performed a pilgrimage to Mecca.