I thought of the Hindustani, and gnashed upon him: for the Hakims had done much evil already, and I thought they would surely complete their work.

“He has allowed his petty spite to place the life of the AmÎr in danger,” thought I; “to say nothing of my life and that of the two Europeans here.”

Mr. Pyne had fortunately been able at this time to obtain leave, and had departed for India with an order for more machinery.

The idea occurred to me in a colloidal form that perhaps I ought to destroy this Hindustani gnat. I say “colloidal,” for I doubt if the idea would ever have crystallized into action. When one has been long trained in the art of saving life, killing does not come readily. I fancy, however, I must have expressed the idea aloud, for the Armenian said:—

“Sir, you not kill it. You big man, he very small man. Your wish, you can shoot Commander-in-Chief or Dabier-ul-Mulk; you not kill two pice Hindustani—dog’s son. Other small man catch it and kill it for you.”

The employment of assassins, however, did not appeal to my imagination as a suitable line of action, and I determined to await the course of events.

For some little time afterwards, if I heard much commotion or bustle outside, I said to myself,

“The hour has come. The AmÎr has joined his fathers; now for the last fight.”

Then, again, I thought this over. What was the good of fighting. Granted that my revolver gave me six lives—why should I take six lives? It would not save my own. And, query again: Was my life worth six others? I rode to the workshops and discussed the matter with the engineers, Stewart and Myddleton. They were good fellows; but they did not agree with me. They said they should make a fight for it; that they were worth a good deal more than six Afghans. Anyway, they did not mean to sit down and wait for their throats to be cut like a couple of bullocks.

This did rather appeal to my imagination. There was the fierce excitement and delight of battling for one’s life, in place of the sickening emotion of waiting to be murdered. I determined, therefore, to waive the point as to whether my life were worth six others, and discuss it afterwards if we escaped, which, by the way, I did not think very likely. I did not so much mind the idea of a bullet through the brain or heart—it would be a momentary emotion; but a bayonet stab—it does not kill at once; and a cut throat I always had a horror of: I have seen so many.

Every night a dinner in European style was brought me, and one day His Highness asked me if I liked fruit. Forthwith, two large trays were brought every night: one of fresh fruit—sweet lemons, grapes, pomegranates, and apples; and one of dried fruits and nuts, far more than any one person could eat; and my servants had the benefit.

I continued attending the Sultana. She showed me her crowns: they were heavy, of beaten gold, worked in intricate designs, and lined with velvet. One had ostrich plumes on it, another had common artificial flowers tucked in round the top. I suggested that flowers were unsuitable on a crown, and Her Highness tore them out. She showed me her hats and bonnets, handing them to me under the curtain. Most of them were English, of an old-fashioned shape. I said they were scarcely fit for a Queen, but she said that the AmÎr liked to see her wear them. One was a fur cap—seal, I think—trimmed with a sable tail. It was very pretty, but artificial flowers had been added. I said that flowers grew in the summer and fur was worn in the winter, perhaps it would look better without the flowers. Her Highness removed them at once. She showed me a photograph album: it contained a few photographs: among them was a copy of a painting of Queen Catherine of Russia. It was a very beautiful face, and the Sultana spoke in admiration of the Queen.

Her Highness asked me to choose a photograph and she would give it me. I had noticed hanging on the wall of the room a photograph, framed in wood, of His Highness the AmÎr. I said that as I had none of my Royal Master I should like that one, if Her Highness could spare it. At once it was taken down by one of the Page boys and handed to me.

The Sultana asked me if I knew the names of the Princes, the sons of the AmÎr. When I had repeated them she asked me if I knew her own name. I had imagined it was not correct for anyone, not of the family, to know a lady’s name. I therefore told Her Highness that, before me, she was spoken of as “the Illustrious Lady.” She, however, told me at once that her name was Halima, so that my prevarication was unnecessary.

She showed me a star and a sword His Highness the AmÎr had given her. The AmÎr was away fighting, and a rebellion arose in Kabul; the young Sultana at once issued from the Harem, veiled, took command of the troops in Kabul, and quelled the rebellion.

The messenger Her Highness sent when she called me was apparently a lad of fifteen or sixteen, called Sirdar. I was informed that it was not a boy but a girl. She was dressed in trousers, tunic, and turban, and considered herself, as indeed did other people, a man. It seemed a little odd to me at first when she came to my room in the middle of the night to call me to attend the Sultana, and coolly sat on the couch while I dressed. I gave her a pair of braces. She had to be on duty night and day, and was worn-looking from insufficient sleep, and she threatened to box my ears if I did not increase the dose of chloral I was giving the Sultana: I had worked it down to forty grains.

I told her I was afraid to increase the dose, as the medicine was a deadly poison, and that its prolonged use in large doses was productive of considerable harm.

The Sultana, not knowing the danger of the medicine, had learnt the habit from the Hindustani medical attendant, who was my predecessor. This man had managed, when he had acquired considerable wealth, to escape from the country. The AmÎr told me he was an utter scoundrel:—which is possible.

The Sultana usually sent for me as soon as she woke, about one or two o’clock in the early morning, for the chloral apparently did not procure her more than four or five hours’ sleep.

One night, after having as usual handed her the clinical thermometer, I found, to my horror, that the indicator marked a temperature of over 106 degrees Fahr.!

I at once asked Her Highness to allow me to examine the pulse. She passed her hand under the curtain. It was cool, and the pulse was steady—seventy beats a minute. There could be no fever with that pulse. I looked at the Armenian, and he pointed silently to the tea cup by my side. I heard some smothered laughter behind the curtain, and the truth flashed upon me. The thermometer had been dipped for a moment in the hot tea—hence 106 degrees Fahr.

Concerning the sleeping draught, Her Highness the Sultana never spoke to me, but Sirdar, her messenger, urged upon me frequently the necessity of increasing the dose, saying that Her Highness could not sleep, and was becoming angry with me. I refused to increase the dose of chloral, and endeavoured to substitute other soporifics.

The result was, that after about a fortnight Her Highness refused European medical treatment. So far from worrying me, this was an absolute relief to my mind; for the position was not without its dangers.

A week after this came Christmas day. I gave instructions to the Chief Cook, and then invited Messrs. Stewart and Myddleton to dine with me in my rooms at the Palace.

It was a clear sunny day; bitterly cold, with a hard frost. My guests arrived on horseback about six p.m., their servants bringing knives, forks, and plates, cigars, and a bottle of whisky. I hadn’t such a thing as whisky, but I produced with great pride a quart bottle of champagne that I had found in the medical stores, and which I had the AmÎr’s permission to use.

We sat down to dinner. My brass candelabra, each with three candles, lit up the festive board: a wood fire blazing on the hearth threw a warm glow over the room: the white walls cast back the light; and the cosy room, with crimson curtains drawn over door and windows, made us almost forget Afghanistan, and we lost, if only for a time, the feeling of insecurity in which we were living.

We had soup, tinned salmon, partridges, roast mutton, anchovy toast, plum pudding all blazing, and fruit. Then came the champagne. With subdued but proud excitement we cut the wire and waited for the cork to pop—it did not pop. We eased it a little with our thumb, and waited. We patted the bottle gently; then shook it—and still waited. The Armenian, standing by, smiled.

“You might bring a corkscrew,” I said, carelessly; “the cork is evidently hard.”

He produced a corkscrew with suspicious readiness, and I proceeded to carefully insert it. Oh, yes, the cork came out easily enough. It was not the fault of the cork. But the champagne!—Did you ever taste champagne that hadn’t any fizz in it? It is beastly.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked the Armenian, when he had tasted it.

“No-thing, Sir!” he said. “He in Hospital ’leven years, all his strength gone away.”

We “passed” the champagne; whisky was good enough for us.

I told the Armenian that it was only blue-blooded Dukes like himself who could drink flat champagne.

“Sir, he is not flat; very good sherbet he is; I like him.”

But after he had been to England he wouldn’t drink champagne that had been eleven years in the Hospital.

After dinner Myddleton sang with great taste, and in a sweet tenor voice, some old English ballads—“The Thorn,” “The Anchor’s Weighed,” and a Christmas carol; Stewart occasionally putting in a seconds. I enjoyed it immensely: it was such a treat to hear music again. I did not sing myself, for some of my servants were Afghans and they were in the room: I should have lowered myself in their eyes if I had sung; my guests, however, were indifferent to the opinion of the Afghans.

About midnight they departed, and rode back, escorted by a couple of soldiers, to their rooms at the workshops.

Two days after this His Highness had a fainting attack; at least he described it as such to me. He said he had been so ill that it had been necessary to give him wine to restore his senses. He desired me to examine the wine and ascertain if it were a suitable stimulant for him. A bottle was handed to me and I poured some out into a wine-glass. It was a clear amber-coloured liquid—may be Chablis, I thought. I was about to drink it, when His Highness said,

“Khubar dar!”—“Take care, it is strong;” and he suggested my adding some sherbet.

“Chablis and sherbet!” I thought; “No, I am not a Mahomedan,” and I smiled and tossed it off.

Sword of Damocles! It was liquid fire! I swallowed and swallowed and blinked and gasped.

As expressing a rapid succession of complicated emotions my face must have been a study, for the AmÎr leant back on his pillows and roared with laughter. As soon as I could get my breath I coughed out that it was a very bad wine and not at all suitable for His Highness. It was Vodki, I believe, or a Russian spirit of some sort—neat.

I went on to say that for the complaint His Highness was suffering from, every kind of wine was more or less harmful; but that, if faintness rendered it necessary, the best he could drink would be good old whisky. I knew that Pyne had brought a supply to Kabul, and when he went away on leave, he had let Stewart and Myddleton have the residue. I therefore rode off to the shops to beg a bottle. When I returned to the Palace, I placed it before His Highness, and explained how it should be taken:—One ounce of whisky to two of water, or, in extreme cases, in equal quantities. His Highness desired me to show him how to take it. It was the first and only “medicine” the AmÎr asked me to taste before him. I poured out an ounce, added two ounces of water, and drank it. Then I sat down.

Presently, I began to feel a little giddy; not that I was uncomfortable—on the contrary; and it struck me what a good thing it would be to tell the AmÎr an amusing story that I had suddenly thought of. I remembered, however, in time that he did not understand English, and thought that probably the point would be lost, or at any rate blunted, if it had to first penetrate an Interpreter’s head. And then it occurred to me that Vodki, or whatever the Russian abomination was, followed by a whisky peg, was not a good thing for a Physician to drink, fasting. I said to His Highness, that being unaccustomed to ShrÂb (alcohol), the doses I had taken were beginning, I was afraid, to affect my wits: would he allow me to withdraw.

“Be not disturbed,” His Highness said. “I can cure you.”

He ordered a cup of strong tea, with a lemon squeezed in it, and directed me to drink it at once. It certainly did clear my head in a wonderful way. By-and-bye, I got away to my room and went to sleep in the arm-chair.

The AmÎr approved of the whisky, and requested me to write at once to Mr. Pyne to order three casks. In due time they arrived.

A day or two afterwards the AmÎr had an alarming head symptom. He described his feelings when I went to see him. There was a sort of aura passing from the feet to the head, buzzing in the ears, headache, and a feeling of great heaviness in the head. I was afraid the symptoms might be the forerunners of an apoplectic, or some nervous seizure. Happily, however, the head symptoms gradually subsided, and two days afterwards the pain had returned to the limbs.

Meanwhile, I had got to work again at the Hospital. The severer cases had accumulated considerably, and I had several surgical operations to do. One was a Stone operation on a small boy, which interested Prince Habibullah very much. The boy got well very quickly, and I took him, with a Workshop accident case that had recovered, to the Durbar that the Prince was holding in the Salaam Khana.

During the AmÎr’s illness, Prince Habibullah had relieved His Highness of a great deal of Governmental work. Sitting for hours nearly every day, he held Durbars and gave decisions in cases of dispute. He was the Chief Civil Magistrate of the town. Minor cases were decided by the “KÔtwal,” or Chief of the Military Police of Kabul.

In addition to these Civil Magistracies there is an Ecclesiastical Court, presided over by the Chief Priest, the “KhÂn-i-Mullah Khan,” for the Priests are those who are learned in the Mahomedan law. There is always, however, the final right of appeal to the Sovereign: though I have heard the AmÎr himself apply to the KhÂn-i-Mullah for instruction on certain points of law.

The duty of Prince Nasrullah was to superintend the management of the Government offices, and the work of the numerous scribes and secretaries—the Mirzas. Both Princes worked hard, and one met them in all weathers, in the blazing sun, in the hissing icy winds, the heavy snow fall, or the pouring rain, riding on their way from their houses in the city to the Durbar Hall, or the Mirza’s offices, in the Erg Palace. With their regular and daily attendance upon their duties, they shamed many of the high officials of the Kingdom, and were a living and daily lesson to the ordinary Afghan, whose motto is ever, “To-morrow, or after to-morrow.”