“And on you peace, who have beheld the tomb of the Prophet,” returned Mushîm Khan, in deep tones, for he was not pleased to behold this stranger, this interfering mullah, who stirred up strife whichever way he went, and was, in fact, engaged in preaching jihad throughout the mountain tribes.
The mullah, Hadji Haroun, was possessed of a very evil gift of eloquence, evil because invariably turned towards the stirring up of strife, and the sowing of plot and intrigue. For long he spoke, unfolding his plan, the design of which was to involve the Gularzai in common with other of the mountain tribes in an aggressive war with the Indian Government. An insignificant military expedition was then on foot against an insignificant unit of these, and here was a grand opportunity to assert themselves, and enjoy some sport in the shape of the slaughter of infidels, which would be pleasing to Allah at the same time—and the seizing of considerable loot, which would be pleasing to themselves. The opportunity was here. The Feringhi were unsuspicious that any hostility could be in existence against them, for had not the Sirkar just created Mushîm Khan a Nawab. The town of Mazaran simply lay in the hand of the Gularzai, and could be taken without a blow, captured by a clever surprise.
What tribe or combination of tribes had ever prevailed in the end when pitted against the Sirkar? No—not in the end, but which of them was any the worse? Soldiers were sent. There was a fight or two, and peace was made. Then things were just as they had been before. The Gularzai would soon become as women, and forget what battle was, if they sat still much longer.
To all of this the chief listened gravely. He distrusted the speaker, and wholly disapproved of the plan, for he had already been sounded on the matter, and that not once. Murad Afzul spat from time to time, nodding his evil head in approval as he gloated in anticipation over the delights in store—of the bazaar in Mazaran running with blood, and the camel loads of choice loot which should find their way to his mountain retreat. Oh, there were merry times ahead.
Yet assuredly disappointment awaited, for Mushîm Khan, having heard all that had been said, absolutely declined to join in the plot. He had given the Sirkar assurances of his friendship. The new Sahib who had come as representative of the Sirkar, had treated him straightforwardly and as a brother, and he refused to behave towards him treacherously and as a liar. Infidel or not, to act thus towards him would not be pleasing to Allah, nor could it be justified out of the teaching of His Prophet.
“As a brother?” repeated the crafty mullah, now about to throw his trump card. “And was not the Sirdar Allahyar Khan a brother of the Nawab?”
“Surely,” answered Mushîm Khan, looking slightly puzzled, for he saw no coherence in the question.
“And his end—peace to his soul?” went on the mullah. “And his end, what was it?”
“His end was that of a brave man if a mistaken one,” replied the chief, in a deep voice, and frowning, for he disliked and resented the raking up of this matter. But Hadji Haroun nodded, looking as though awaiting further particulars.
“He died fighting the Feringhi, by whom he was shot—and is now in Paradise,” supplemented Kuhandil Khan.