"Danger!" interrupted Denis, "I revel in danger. I know that the Afghans, every mother's son of them, are thieves and cut-throats; they slice off your head, and then——"
"And then?" said Walter, smiling.
"You have something to put into a book."
Walter could not help laughing at the Hibernian's bull; but resuming his grave expression he observed, "I do not think that you fully know what you would undertake."
"I know everything!" cried Denis, a little impatiently; "I've had it all dunned into me by every one whom I've met, but all I've heard only strengthens my resolution to go. I'm sick of travelling about in a place like India, where every black fellow salams you, and vows he's your slave. I've done India thoroughly all round; seen all that's to be seen, and much more. I've visited no end of Hindu mosques and Mohammedan temples, have dined with the Viceroy, and taken pot-luck with the Brahmins. Now I want something new and exciting. Besides, as I told you, I've an object in view. I'm going, if all the world should cry 'stay.'" And with a look of stern determination, Denis finished off the last bit of the pheasant.
Then followed a few seconds of silence. It was broken by Denis exclaiming, with the joyousness inspired by a happy thought: "I say, Walter, you will come with me! You know the language, you have made friends with the Afghans; having you with me would increase a thousandfold my chance of getting back with a whole skin. You're a good shot, I suppose?"—he glanced at a gun in a corner.
"Fair," replied Walter Gurney, who hardly ever missed his aim.
"You have a horse, I suppose?"
"A hill-pony,—not much of a mount."
"But, doubtless, he can keep his legs on the mountains; you're not such a weight as I am, though pretty nearly as tall. Yes, yes, you're just the companion I wanted; a jovial young chap, sticking at nothing, who can ride, shoot, cook, groom a horse, and I daresay shoe it at a pinch, and who will think no more of danger than I do."