On another occasion, during the Afghan War, it was a matter of considerable importance to ascertain the temper of an important tribe, whose position and territory threatened the left flank of the lines of communication not far short of Jellalabad. For this difficult and dangerous duty Duffadar Faiz Talab of the Guides offered his services, well knowing the great risks he was likely to incur, though, as the event proved, he materially underrated them.
Dressed as an ordinary Pathan, with great flowing white garments, a slatey blue puggery, and with a dagger or two stuck in his cummerband, he sallied forth one dark night, and laid up not far from camp. This precaution was taken so that not one of the hundreds of pairs of sharp eyes in our own camp should see him depart.
Next day he strolled on leisurely, and in the course of the afternoon arrived at the chief village of the tribe in question. In every Afghan village there is a rest-house, or serai, for strangers, and thither as a rule towards evening the village gossips also find their way; the hospitable hookah is passed from mouth to mouth, and in grave Oriental fashion they set about picking each other's gossip-pockets. "And you, brave stranger, who are you?" asked a grey-bearded, sharp-eyed old man of Duffadar Faiz Talab.
"I?" he answered readily; "why, I have just left those dogs of Feringhis (may God burn them in hell!), where I took service for a short time, so as to learn their ways, and their tricks of fighting."
"Shāhbāsh (bravo)!" exclaimed the company; "and what are you going to do now?"
"What am I going to do now? Why, fight the accursed infidels, of course!" replied the duffadar.
"That is indeed fortunate," said the headman of the village, "for our spies tell us that the Feringhis intend attacking us. We shall now be able to make you the general of our forces, and since you have been so wise as to learn the cunning strategy of the infidels we shall of a surety kill them all, and send their souls to hell."
"Oh yes, certainly, if I am here," hastily murmured Faiz Talab, adding as he regained his composure and the Oriental art of fluently telling the thing that is not true, "but unfortunately I have urgent business over the Khost, and cannot delay. To-morrow at crack of dawn I must be on my way."
"Our kismet is indeed bad, but let the will of God be done!" was the pious rejoinder of the most villainous-looking of the surrounding cut-throats.
Night having now fallen, and the lighting arrangements of an Afghan village being limited to a wood fire, travellers and villagers began one by one to roll themselves up in their wadded quilts, and each man, hugging his sword, dropped off to sleep.