Ahmed, son of Rahmut Khan, chief of the village of Shagpur, was making his lonely way through the hills some three miles above his home. He could see the walled village perched on a little tract of grassy land just where the base of the hills met the sandy plain. It was two thousand feet or more below him, and he could almost count the flat-topped houses clustered beyond his father's tower, which, though actually it rose to some height above them, dominating them, and affording an outlook over miles and miles of the plain, yet appeared to Ahmed, at his present altitude, merely a patch in the general level.

Between him and the village lay three miles of grey rugged hill country, scarred with watercourses, and almost void of vegetation. A mile away, indeed, there was a long stretch of woodland, lying like a great green smudge upon the monotony of grey. It was a patch of irregular shape, narrowing here, broadening there, filling a valley which bent round towards the village. Ahmed was accustomed to shoot there occasionally, but he preferred the more exciting and more dangerous sport of hunting on the hills, where he might stalk his quarry from crag to crag, leaping ravines, swarming up abrupt and precipitous cliffs, always in peril of a fall that might break his limbs even if it did not crash the life out of him. For Ahmed was of a daring disposition, fearless, undauntable, yet possessed of a certain coolness of judgment by which he had hitherto brought himself unscathed through sixteen years of adventurous boyhood.

He was a tall, slim, lissom fellow, with very black hair and a swarthy skin, which set off the spotless white of his turban. He wore the loose frock and baggy trousers of the country. Yet one observing him would have marked certain differences between his features and those of the Pathans among whom he dwelt. His nose was arched, but it was thinner than was usual among his countrymen. His lips were not so thick as theirs, nor was his mouth so large, and his eyes, instead of coal-black, were of a curious steely-grey. And any one who saw him bathing with the lads of his village (itself a strange pastime, for the hill-men have no great partiality for water) would have been struck by the paleness of his skin where it was protected from the sun and the weather. The observer's conclusion would probably have been that Ahmed was a Pathan of a particularly refined type, and in all likelihood an offshoot of some noble family which time's vicissitudes had reduced.

Ahmed stood for a few moments looking down at Shagpur, then turned to pursue his way. He had a fowling-piece slung at his back; his intention was to ascend the hills for perhaps another thousand feet, to a spot where he would probably come upon a small herd of black-buck. But he had not mounted far from the place at which he had paused when he halted again, and, putting his left hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun's rays, gazed steadily in a direction away from the village. Below him the plain stretched for many miles, bare and desolate, though when the rains came by and by it would be clothed with verdure. Scarcely a tree broke its level, and so parched was it now that no beast could have found sustenance there. But far away Ahmed's keen eye had descried what appeared to be a speck upon the horizon, and he watched it intently.

There was nothing unusual in the sight itself. Many a time he had seen just such a speck in the sky, watched it grow in breadth and height, until it stretched across the plain like an immense wall, thirty miles long, a thousand feet high. He had seen it approach like a monstrous phantom, driving before it, as it were, circling flights of kites and vultures, enveloping the bases of the hills, shutting out the sun with yellow scudding clouds. But such a dust-storm ordinarily swept over the plain southwards: Ahmed had never seen one approach from the west; and after a long and steady gaze at the speck, which grew slowly in size, he suddenly dropped his hand, uttered an exclamation in the Pashtu tongue, and turning his back began to retrace his course, at a speed vastly greater than that at which he had formerly been moving, towards his distant village.

The moving speck had resolved itself into a band of horsemen. They had been too far away for him to distinguish individuals and know who and what they were; but, considering the quarter from which they were coming, his instant thought was that they were an enemy, and it behoved him to give his people warning. In that wild country of the border raids were frequent enough. Especially was a warning necessary to-day, for the village was in poor condition to defend itself. Only the day before, Rahmut Khan, his father, had ridden out with all the younger men to raid horses on the British frontier. Ahmed shrewdly suspected that tidings of this expedition had been conveyed to Minghal Khan, the chief's inveterate enemy and rival, and Minghal had taken advantage of it to make the attack for which he had no doubt long awaited a favourable occasion. And what occasion could be more favourable than the absence of the old warrior on an enterprise from which, if at once successful, he could not return for five or six days, and which, if he found himself at first baulked in it, might occupy him for a fortnight?

Ahmed was well aware of the danger in which Shagpur lay. The village had a high wall; but he had no belief that the gates could withstand the assault of a determined enemy. It would be something to the good, however, if the assailants could be checked for a time, and they might be checked by the shutting of the gates. But the villagers could not see from the walls the advancing band; unless there was some one on the tower, or Ahmed himself should give warning, the enemy would be upon them before the gates could be closed, and then it would be a tale of rapine and massacre. He knew that, make what speed he might, he could not, if he followed the way he had come, reach the village before the mounted men. The only chance was to gain the wood, through which, being on a level, he could run fleetly. Swerving, therefore, from the direct line to the village, Ahmed scrambled down the rough hillside, leaping little chasms, springing from rock to rock with the agility of a mountain goat, yet with circumspection, for should he miss his footing a sprained ankle would be the least of his mishaps, and Shagpur was lost.

Down and down he went, stumbling, slipping, barking his shins, but never heeding such slight mishaps so long as nothing brought him to a check. And now, just as the dark woodland seems at his very feet, he pulls up with a sudden cry of "Hai!" for in front of him there yawns a ravine, four or five paces across, and many feet deep. He glances to either side: a little to the left it narrows slightly, but only by reason of a jagged spit of rock that juts out—a spit so small as barely to afford resting-place to a foot. At every other spot the ravine is even wider than where he was brought to a halt. He waits but a moment—long enough to reflect that he dare not go the toilsome way round, lest he arrive too late; and then, setting his teeth and clenching his fingers so tightly that the nails press deep into his palms, he takes a leap. Misjudgment of the distance by an inch would dash him into the chasm below; but practice has given him perfect command of his muscles; he springs lightly, confidently; his right foot lands on the precariously narrow spit of rock, and as he stoops his body he brings the left foot against the right; then, just as it would seem that the momentum of his flight must cause him to sway and stagger and topple over sideways, he rises as on springs to his full height, and with another effort of his well-trained muscles he hurls himself from the spit on to the broader ledge behind, and is safe.

Panting as he was, Ahmed sped off without delay. At last he reached the edge of the wood; he plunged into it, and finding a track which he had often followed, he ran easily as a deer. When he emerged at the other end, he dashed across the fields, green with his father's crops, and came to the gates.

"Minghal Khan is upon us!" he cried, as he entered. Some young boys playing in the street took up the cry and ran screaming into their houses; old Ahsan, the gate-keeper—now frail and bent, but once the best rider and the cunningest horse-stealer of Shagpur—came tottering out of his hut.

"Minghal Khan, say you, Ahmed-ji? That son of a dog!" and he slammed-to the gates and barred them, muttering curses on the enemy.

By this time the cries of the children had brought the villagers into the street. They were for the most part old men and feeble; the young and able-bodied were with Rahmut Khan; but there were among them a few men in the prime of life and some boys of about Ahmed's age. Breathlessly he told them what he had seen.

"The gates are but as ghi to Minghal," cried old Ahsan. "They will not keep him out till the sun sets."

"Then we will go into the tower," said Ahmed, "and shut ourselves up there until my father returns."

He ran into his father's house and brought out the chief's two wives and three daughters, who fled swiftly to the tower upon the wall. Then with the aid of some of the people he collected what provisions he could; the women filled their brass pots with water at the well, and carried them on their heads to the tower; men followed them with arms and ammunition, and with strong balks of wood for barricading the foot of the winding stair. Within ten minutes of Ahmed's arrival in the village all who chose had shut themselves with him in the refuge.

Not all chose. Even while these preparations were being made some of the men held aloof. Minghal Khan was a younger, wealthier, and more powerful chief than Rahmut: what was the good of holding out against him? There had been for many years a feud between them; such an attack as was now imminent might long have been foreseen. The more powerful must win: it was Fate. Had they not known many such cases? Was it not better to yield to the enemy at once and make their peace with him? Ahmed and old Ahsan hotly protested, appealed to their loyalty, reminded them of what the chief's anger would be when he came back and found that they had betrayed him. These appeals were effective with the bolder spirits, but there was still a good proportion of the villagers who foresaw that their chief's dominion was at an end, and were eager to make their own future secure by nailing the rising sun. These remained in the village street, and when, a few minutes after Ahmed and his party had shut themselves in the tower, the band of horsemen, fifty strong, with Minghal at their head, rode up to the gates and demanded admittance, one of the disaffected removed the bars and made humble obeisance as the rival chief entered.

The new-comers uttered loud shouts of exultation at the ease of their victory, not at first aware of the resolute little band in the tower. It was only when Minghal had entered the chief's house and found it deserted that he suspected what had happened. Then with a grim smile he questioned the villagers, all most obsequious to their new master; and Ahmed, watching the scene from a latticed window high up in the tower, wondered what the smile portended. He expected to see Minghal's men collect the grain-stuffs and everything else of value that the village contained, and then set fire to the houses; but old Ahsan by his side, better acquainted with the long feud which had existed between the two chiefs, stroked his beard and groaned.

"Hai! hai!" he muttered. "It has come at last. But I am too old, too old, to serve a new master. Shagpur will have another gate-keeper now, Ahmed-ji."

"What meanest thou, old man?" asked Ahmed, wondering.

"Minghal has come not for plunder, but for mastery," was the reply. "'Tis what he has meditated for a dozen years; and who can strive against Fate? When the master comes back he will find that Shagpur is no longer his. If he resists he will be slain; if he accepts his lot, he will be loaded with chains or cast out of the village, a beggar to the end of his days."

"And what of us, then?" asked Ahmed.

"Hai!" said the old man. "As for you, I speak not, Ahmed-ji; but for me, I am too old, as I said. I have my knife."

Ahmed looked into the gate-keeper's face. He read there neither fear nor despair, nothing but a calm resolution. Then he uttered a scornful laugh.

"No one can strive against Fate, truly," he said; "but who knows that Fate has given us into Minghal's hand? By the beard of the Prophet, Ahsan——"

But the old man put his hand on the boy's mouth.

"Hush, Ahmed-ji," he said, with a sort of stern tenderness; "'tis not meet, little one, that oath in your mouth. You have well-nigh forgotten, but I do not forget. We are as we were born, and you were born a Feringhi."