The morning came.
The Armenian, with a white face, silently walked with me to the Palace. It was a sunny warm morning, the fruit-trees in the garden were in full bloom, and I remember the scent of the flowers, as we walked along the path. How is it, I wonder, that slight external impressions dwell for ever in one’s memory when the mind is busily turned inwards? The awning was not up, and we took our stand, the Armenian and I, in the sun on the open space opposite the Palace. The two Hindustanis came up looking very yellow, accompanied by the Kashmiri, who was an intelligent looking man, with a dark skin. We waited a few minutes without speaking, and then His Highness with some attendant pages came from the Palace, and took his seat on an arm-chair on the verandah, opposite to us. The natives “salaamed,” I bowed, and His Highness touched his hat in acknowledgment. His Highness then addressed the Kashmiri engineer in Persian. The engineer turned to me, he had my letter in his hand; and he said in a severe manner:—
“I have here a letter purporting to be from you. I notice that it is not dated.”
“Confound your impudence,” I thought, but I said nothing; I bowed.
“You know,” said he, approaching nearer and altering his manner, “that this Armenian fellow cannot speak English, you had very much better——”
“Who asked for your advice, sir!” I said, turning on him suddenly. “His Highness ordered you to enquire whether that letter were mine or not.” This was a shot, for when His Highness spoke, I understood only two words, “letter” and “doctor.”
The engineer appeared startled, and he said:—
“A learned man like yourself, the most scientific in Afghanistan, and one on whose shoulders a grave responsibility rests, should have his words translated exact in every detail. If you expressed a wish to that effect, I am sure His Highness would engage from India at a large salary, an interpreter——”
At it again, I thought.