The disappearance of Dermot Denis, though not noticed for a few days, did indeed excite much attention in India, though newspapers at first only told of the adventurous traveller who had, unknown to Government, crossed the border, and for whose safety apprehensions were entertained. After a-while apprehensions increased—not by tales spread by the muleteers, for those unfortunate men had not been suffered to reach India alive, but by the absence of all reliable intelligence of the Irishman and his companion.
Then Government took up the matter. A large reward was offered, and investigations commenced. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF TWO ENGLISHMEN appeared in capitals in every paper, and in mess-room, at dinner-table, in ball-room, the probable fate of the bold adventurers formed a common topic of conversation. But reward offered, and search made were alike unavailing; and other subjects of newer interest took the place of that which at first had been the topic on every tongue.
Denis's relations in Ireland were at first in great trouble about him. His sisters shed floods of tears, his brothers talked of going out themselves to India to prosecute the strictest search. But time wore away the edge of their sorrow. Again the girls danced at the county balls, and enjoyed their picnics and lawn-tennis. The elder of the brothers, in due time, succeeded to the family property; there were hunting and shooting in the fields, revelry and mirth in the mansion whose former master had not even a grave! Poor Dermot was almost forgotten; even his name was seldom mentioned—unless some stranger looking up at the full-length portrait, by an eminent artist, of a gentleman in hunting costume, should chance to inquire, "Who is that splendid-looking young man?" "Oh! poor Dermot, the best fellow in the world—lost in Afghanistan," would be the reply, carelessly given, and immediately, perhaps, followed by a request to pass round the bottle. It is only for a while that the fall of even the largest stone into a lake leaves eddies to tell where it fell. The world's darling passes away, and the thoughtless world laughs on.
Seven years had passed since Denis on his steed, and Walter trudging as his squire on foot, had traversed the mountain road, when a British force, invading Afghanistan, encamped close by the thicket where Sultána had encountered the leopard. Hundreds of camels were crouching on the ground, relieved for a-while from their burdens; hundreds of mules were tethered by the tents. The blare of the bugle, the word of command, the confused noises of a camp resounded in the lately silent pass, and the sunbeams glinted back from bayonet and sword.
"To hero bound for battle strife,
Or bard of martial lay,
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life
One glance at their array."
A commissariat-officer, burdened with the care of providing for the host, was standing by one of the tents, pencil and note-book in hand, engaged in making some calculation regarding fodder and forage, when he was approached by a stranger of very striking and prepossessing appearance. The Afghan costume set off to advantage a tall and graceful figure, but the countenance and manner were unmistakeably those of an English gentleman. The officer looked up in surprise as he was courteously saluted by the stranger, whose face expressed the emotion naturally felt by one who, after an absence of many years, finds himself again in the midst of his countrymen.
"Whom have I the pleasure of seeing in Afghan disguise?" asked the British officer.
"You are hardly likely, sir, to know a name which its owner has half-forgotten. Seven years ago I was called Walter Gurney."
