'"Sahib," said she one day, coming to me with her dark eyes quite dilated, "pardon and departure in peace has been offered to your people, if they will leave all their women in the hands of the Afghan chiefs; but they have refused, and only one cry is heard in their camp."
'"And that cry is?"
'"'Let us fight our way down, sword in hand! A few of us at least shall reach Jellalabad.' But they will never reach it," she added sadly; "Aziz Khan and Zemaun Khan have beset their homeward path with 10,000 wild Kohistanees, and the Ghilzies—the fiercest of Afghan warriors—hold the heights that overlook it."
'I started to my feet as I heard all this, as if I would be gone; but I threw myself back on the camel's hair divan in a species of despair, as I knew that the tower was guarded by men with loaded juzailchees that would kill at 800 yards. She regarded me wistfully, and drawing near nestled like a child by my side.
'"Has the Sahib a wife in yonder camp, that he looks so sad?" she asked shyly.
'"No."
'"A sister, perhaps?"
'"I have none."
'"That is well; you will have none to weep for."
'"How?"