It had been thought that little Prince Aziz Ullah was becoming somewhat better, but in spite of colour in the cheeks he had the greyness about the nostrils that is so ominous of evil in a child, and I sent word to his mother that his life was in great danger. He died the next morning; five days after my first visit.
The Chief with fever became well, but he would not take advice and wrap himself up. Either from that, or some other cause, he developed acute intestinal catarrh; and the Amîr sent word to me to visit him. He became well eventually, and went back to his province.
Just at this time—the end of November—the weather was most disagreeable. There were heavy clouds and constant rain. This is bad enough in England, but in Kabul it is abominable. The rain made havoc with the roads and houses. Very few of the roads were in any sense “macadamized,” and one splashed and slipped along through quagmires and pools. The houses, especially of the poorer people, slightly built of mud with wooden supports, were, some of them, literally washed down.
I went about my daily work in Kabul, seeing patients, performing surgical operations where necessary; and in the evenings I smoked and read my old books over and over again, little knowing that the Amîr had had a severe return of gout and was lying dangerously ill at the Palace. News leaks out in time, chiefly by means of the Page boys, but it is little outsiders know at first of what is going on in the Palace.
The Call at Night.
On December 2nd, at nine p.m., just as I had turned in, there came a hammering at the gates. Presently one of the soldiers of the guard came hurrying to my room and said, in Persian,
“Rise! Amîr Sahib calls you.”
I pulled on my boots, threw on a postîn, and in a very few seconds was in the porch. Quick as I had been, I found my horse saddled and bridled. I rode rapidly along the dark deserted streets, slippery with wet, the puddles glistening in the light of an occasional lamp: a soldier was in front and a soldier behind me. Then I heard the clatter and splash of other horses, and looking back saw the Armenian advancing rapidly, accompanied by the soldier who had called him. This was somewhat of a relief to me, for I did not know the soldiers, and the Armenian was always a protection. I guessed now that the Amîr was ill, and that the time had arrived when he wished to undergo European medical treatment. Presently we arrived at the Erg Palace, and, leaving our horses at the gate, were at once admitted by the sentry. We hurried across the gardens to the Amîr’s Pavilion. Entering at once we passed through the Octagonal Hall, and in the small room opposite the entry I saw the Amîr lying back on the pillows of his couch. He was rolling his head from side to side and groaning in great pain. Malek, the Page, was kneeling on the couch rubbing His Highness’s knee. The two eldest sons, the Princes Habibullah and Nasrullah, were in the room with the Amîr, as were Perwana Khan, Jan Mahomed Khan, the Dabier-ul-Mulk, Mir Ahmad Shah—in fact, most of the principal officers of the Kingdom who were in Kabul at the time. These were kneeling around the room. Everyone had a look of strained and anxious attention.
It was obvious that the Amîr was very ill, and I said in English to the Armenian,