IN CANDAHAR
On the 15th of September Angus started, after a tearful farewell from his Armenian friends. Their gratitude to him and Pottinger was unbounded. The presence and influence of their two English guests had preserved them from the rapacity and cruelty of the wuzeer, while all other merchants and traders in the town had been maltreated and robbed, and in many cases had died under the tortures inflicted to wring from them treasures it was believed they possessed. Kajar and his brother and their families alone enjoyed an immunity from persecution. Both had determined that they would leave Herat, and taking with them their workmen, establish themselves at Teheran or Tabriz, where the profit of their work might be less, but they would at least be able to enjoy it in security, such as could never be hoped for as long as Yar Mahomed was the virtual ruler of Herat.
The period that had elapsed since Angus left Teheran had changed him much. He was no longer a boy, for he had been doing man's work. He was now nearly eighteen years old, and had attained his full height of nearly six feet. His illness had pulled him down much, and sharpened his features, and except for his lighter colour, he really more closely resembled an Afghan than the Persian trader he was dressed to represent. The pallor caused by his illness had been succeeded by a deep tan, caused by his passing so many hours daily in the sun during his convalescence.
"I am glad to be out of Herat," Azim said, as he looked back at the walls.
"So am I, Azim. I thought at one time that I was never coming out at all."
"It is a very bad place, master. In Persia the governors squeeze the people a bit, and sometimes there is much grumbling, but the worst of them are very much better than Yar Mahomed, who is a son of Sheitan, whom may Allah confound."
"He is a scoundrel," Angus agreed heartily. "I wonder myself that the people of Herat have not long since risen and torn him to pieces. I know that if I had been a merchant there I should have tried to stir them up to do it."
Azim shook his head. "They cannot trust each other, effendi. There are many who would like to do as you have said, but there are many who cannot trust their own neighbours."
"Then I would do it myself. Look how many old men were tortured to death; some of them must have had sons. Had my father been so tortured I would have lain in wait for the wuzeer day after day in some empty house—there are plenty of them in one of the streets by which he usually went from his palace to the walls—and as he rode past I would have put a bullet in his head. I would then have escaped from the back of the house if possible. No one would have seen who had fired the shot, and I should have been safe if once away. If I were overtaken I would put a pistol to my head, so as to avoid being tortured to death. I cannot understand thirty or forty thousand people continuing to support the rule of a tyrant, when one bold man could put an end to it."