Life in the Eagle's Nest

by A. L. O. E.

"Better, very much better. I cannot be too thankful to Him who has brought good out of evil. Denis, I feel such a hope——" Walter paused, for he was conscious that he was speaking to one who had no sympathy with any such hope.

"What is it?" inquired the Irishman; "I thought that you always left the hoping to me."

"I hope that I have been led here to do some good to these wild Afghans, and specially to that most interesting child Sultána."

"Do you mean that you have been self-appointed to act as a kind of honorary missionary in the Eagle's Nest—a shepherd—or rather a wolf-herd to a gang of Afghan robbers?"

"God can make use of the weakest instruments," said Walter, rather speaking to himself than to Denis. "It was certainly a mysterious Providence that led me here." Walter was thinking of the fiery cloudy pillar which he had prayerfully sought to follow.

"If any one can do good here, you will," said Denis; "the ruffians seem to be amazingly fond of your singing; you have certainly a capital voice. Do you think you could give the Afghans a little of your chanting now?"

Walter was surprised at such a proposal coming from Denis. He himself felt little equal to any bodily effort; but his voice was the one talent left to Walter in his prison, and he desired to use it to the uttermost for his Master. The young man let Denis draw his charpai to a position in front of the open door, so that Walter, by raising himself to a sitting posture, commanded a view of the court-yard, and looked directly down on the two wounded men. Ali Khan's expression of pleasure at seeing him, rewarded Walter for the little effort which he had made.

"Leave your blanket with me," said Dermot Denis. "The afternoon is so hot, you cannot possibly want it." Scarcely waiting for a word of consent, Denis carried off the wrap to a corner of the room which was quite out of view of the court-yard.

Walter's conduct on the late trying occasion had made a favourable impression on some of the Afghans. He was regarded as a gallant youth, who had scorned to deny his faith, even with a dagger at his throat. Whether that faith were true or false was a matter of utter indifference to many of the dwellers in the fort; they knew that Assad Khan had called the Moulvie—whatever in Pushtoo is equivalent to a humbug—and had turned him out of the place; what were they that they should dispute the judgment of their chief? Thus Walter began his singing under more favourable auspices than before, and had a larger circle of listeners. The prisoner not only chanted the account of the Prodigal Son, but was able to give a simple practical exposition of that story which perhaps, of all the Lord's parables, goes most directly to the listener's heart. Pain and weariness were forgotten; Walter was full of animation; he felt that he was giving the message of salvation to those who now heard for the first time that there is a Father in Heaven, ready to welcome His prodigals home.

Young Gurney sang and spoke for more than an hour; indeed, as long as his strength would hold out. An Afghan then came up the stair with a meal, which was a better one than Assad Khan had ever before sent to his captives.