We had not ridden very far when suddenly out of the darkness came the challenge in Pushtu,
“Sû-kè?” “Who goes there?”
It was a sentry with orders to allow no one to pass till the Amîr had gone by!
“When is he going?” I enquired.
“Khuda medanad!” “God knows!” was the answer.
This was cheerful; and I said a great deal in English. There we sat in the dark: we couldn’t go on, for the man would not let us. The annoying part was that his General, who had a tent somewhere near, was that very man who tried to bully me in the Hospital. I said to the Armenian,
“Tell him to report to the fat scoundrel who I am.” The man then shouted to someone whom we could not see to take the report. After some minutes, word was brought back that the General was asleep!
“Wake the devil, then!” I shouted, for I was burning and aching with fever, and we had been waiting already half an hour. They did not dare to, they said. The sentry communed within himself, and presently said that, as I had attended him in a severe illness and had given him good medicine and made him well, he would therefore risk punishment for my sake and let me pass. He hesitated about letting the Armenian and soldier go by too, but finally yielded, on its being explained to him how impossible it was for me to travel alone. I never heard that he was punished.
We rode on again, and on for four hours, and I had to hang on to the pommel of the saddle. At last, after trying to moisten parched lips with a dried-up tongue, I said to the Armenian:—