What is written in the book of Fate no man may read.

The grave of the rider of the desert will be dug in the blue hills of Badakshan; he will not know it until the dark angel of death is at hand.

The astrologer may sit on his strip of carpet in the cupola of the temple and seek the wisdom of the stars in the night. But he will not see the hand with the dagger that rises behind him.

Mogul proverb

The sun was high over the Shyr Pass when Gutchluk Khan reined his horse in my path. It was the year 1608 in the calendar of the Christian priests, and the year of the Ox by the reckoning of my people.

The Shyr Pass at this place is not wide, for one of the rivulets of the Amu Daria flows beside the caravan track. On either hand the willows and rocks press close. Likewise, Gutchluk Khan was a broad man, with a figure like a full sack of wine, and there were two with him. They carried bows and round shields, small and bossed with silver, after the manner of their race—the Uzbeks.

It is a saying of my master, Baber Shirzad Mir, who heard it said by the dead Mogul Akbar—on whom be peace—that, when in difficulty, put spurs to your horse and ride forward. It is well said. This thought came to my mind when I saw the turbaned bulk of Gutchluk Khan, and I pressed toward him, touching the hilt of my sword lightly with my free hand.

Gutchluk Khan was not the same man with a sword as with his speech. He watched, not pleased to stay where he was at the edge of the river but not wishing to rein back.

“Ho, Abdul Dost!” he cried loudly. “Whither go you?”

Speech is ever a trick of those who wish you ill. And I loved not the stout Uzbek, whose sword was too often for sale and who, in the year of the Ox, was numbered among the men of Jani Beg. Wherefore I pressed forward until the gold cloth at the peak of my saddle rubbed against the shoulder straps of his steppe pony.

Now I was at that time two-score years and lean. I have heard it said in the bazaars that I ride better than most and use my scimitar as well as any but a very few of the Mogul’s picked mansabdars. Doubtless Gutchluk Khan knew this, and stout men are tender of injury.

He reined his horse to one side and his followers likewise. Yet when I had passed them so much as a horse’s length, I halted.

A thought had come to me. I was bound for Khanjut, where was my lord, Shirzad Mir. He was prisoner to Jani Beg. Gutchluk Khan had seen me and would follow if he suspected my horse’s head was turned to Khanjut. He would doubtless be glad of an excuse to set his pig’s face back toward the camp of Jani Beg, where were captive women and the musicians and wine of the Beg.

“I go,” I said, “to Anderab to seek a new horse.”

“Nay, Abdul Dost, your horse is good.” His swine’s eyes puckered at me. “It is one of the breed of Kabul. And you, truly, are a one-mount soldier.”

It was true the horse was excellent. It was a gift of Shirzad Mir—may his soul have peace! Gutchluk lied when he swore I was a rider of one mount. Ten years ago, when Shirzad Mir was chieftain of Badakshan, the king of kings, whose court was a heaven and who was a warrior to warm the heart, the Shadow of God, Akbar, the emperor, had given me the rank of mansabdar, with the privilege of a double remount.

But Gutchluk Khan did not know this. Nor did I care if he knew. My heart was sore with thought of Shirzad Mir in chains and doomed to death.

“He is bred—” I patted the neck of Wind-of -the-Hills—“to take the road from mongrels.”

“And from Moguls,” chuckled Gutchluk Khan, who lacked not wit after a fashion. “He has learned that trick from his master. Aye, you and the other men of Shirzad Mir—those that still live— have earned the hatred of the all-powerful Jahangir, Mogul of India, whose whisper is a shout of command, even in these northern hills. Wherefore Shirzad Mir will die before sunrise tonight.”

It was true that Jani Beg had so ordered. A boy shepherd had told me the news, down the pass.

“He will be slain,” smiled Gutchluk Khan, “by a bowstring drawn taut around the neck. When he is dead, his head will be cut off. It will be emptied and the skull set in gold.”

The two followers laughed, for they were three and I was one. Nevertheless they kept their bows in hand. I was very angry, and they had heard tales of my swordplay.

“The skull,” mocked the Uzbek, “will be dried and will be a drinking-cup to fill with wine of Shiraz for the favorite of Jani Beg. The women will toy with it.”

Gutchluk Khan was well pleased that he had angered me.

“Ho,” he cried, waving his plump hand at me, “there will be rare sport when Jani Beg gives the order to hunt you down, Abdul Dost! He will fly his horsemen at you like falcons, and they will add your head to the minaret of skulls by the gate of Khanjut. But the skull of Baber Shirzad Mir, the Tiger Lord, he will keep for his women’s delight.”

Three years ago Akbar the Great, Mogul of India, had passed to the mercy of God. He had been the friend of Shirzad Mir. Jahangir, Akbar’s son, had little liking for us hillmen.

Besides, Jani Beg, the Uzbek, had spent much gold among the courtiers of Jahangir and had whispered that Shirzad Mir was a rebel who sought Badakshan for himself. Shirzad Mir was a proud man; he did not give up the kingdom when Jani Beg came—with Jahangir’s consent—at the head of an army to demand it.

It was false that he had rebelled against the Mogul. But we were far from the court—and Jani Beg had spent much gold. We had

done no evil. Only, we had not gone to the court, as the Uzbek did. It is written in our annals—the annals of Badakshan—that the screech of an owl in the wilderness is more pleasant than the song of the nightingale in the grove; the caves of the mountain-tops are finer than the cities of the valley.

When it was too late, we understood. But the word had gone forth that we had taken up arms against the Mogul, and those who were of faint heart deserted us.

As a last resort I had mounted and gone through the Uzbek lines, through the pass, to Kabul to seek the governor of the Mogul. But at Kabul I found Said Afzel, the son of Jani Beg, who had given the governor much silk, camels, brocades and slaves. I could do naught, being a man of slow speech, without a present in my hand.

It was then, when I rode back through the pass, I learned that Shirzad Mir had, to save the lives of his followers, surrendered Khanjut and appealed to the mercy of Jahangir.

But the voice of the Tiger Lord carried no further than the foothills of the Hindu Kush. That night he was to be slain.

Knowing these things, what answer had Ito the gibes of Gutchluk Khan? It was an evil day.

Even at the last, Jani Beg and the courtiers who were with him had not kept faith with Shirzad Mir. They had promised him life, and they were making ready his death bed.

Verily, it came to my mind, when I heard the talk of the sheep-boy, that he who holds power under a prince should not be absent from the court. But it was too late.

If the Mogul had known the truth, it might have been other-wise. Aye, for his father was Akbar, who was a soldier. And a soldier understands justice.

It is written by the men of wisdom that he who sits down to the feast of life must end by drinking the cup of death. Yet the cup that was at the lips of Shirzad Mir was bitter as dregs of sour wine. For who wants to be branded a traitor?

Of this thought I said naught to Gutchluk Khan. Seeing that he was waiting for me to speak, I was silent. He watched me from owl-like, blinking eyes. He had the broad, hooked nose of the Uzbek men, but his face was heavy with flesh and his beard scrawny. Instead of the sheepskin saddle-cover that his tribe usually owned, his saddle glittered with jewels, and his khalat was silk. He had been at the sack of Khanjut after the surrender.

“When Shirzad Mir is dead,” he said, changing his tone, “you will be a free man. Why not enter the service of Jani Beg? He has an eye for a veteran swordsman. And he has watched you among the defenders of Khanjut. Where else will you go?”

The thought came to me that Gutchluk Khan would like to wheedle me and so to carry my head to Jani Beg. I smiled and he said no more.

It was a fair sight, if I had been so minded—the valley of Shyr. The rivulet muttered nearly under our feet, down the steep bank. Overhead, through the thin arms of the willows, was the blue, blue sky of the hill country. On either hand rose the mighty peaks of the Hindu Kush with their pine garments and snow heads. Hai—it was well to feel the keen air of the higher levels after the hot dampness of the Kabul fields!

And then I saw that Gutchluk and his followers were not looking at me. Along the path in front of them had come two men.

No man—but only God—knows what lies before him. Here were two men on foot, and I had never seen their like before. None but peasants, shepherds and slaves walk afoot in my country. Yet these two had no horses.

Even the followers of Gutchluk Khan wore cloth of silver and had gems of sorts, such as turquoise, on the hilts of their scimitars. These strangers wore plain weapons of dull steel in leather scabbards and their swords were not curved but straight. The taller of the two had a cloak of dull brown with a plain metal clasp at the throat. Also boots of loose leather, such as the Tatars wear.

But he was no Tatar. His green eyes were level and his face was fair as a Circassian. His yellow beard and mustache were pointed. A plain ruffle of white cloth showed at his throat, which was bare. Instead of a turban he wore a small green cap with a long feather.

By these things I knew that the two were Franks, or Ferangs, called by the black Portuguese priests of Agra Christian Europeans.

I stared, for I had not seen a Ferang before. Nor had Gutchluk Khan and his men. The taller of the two strangers lifted his hand for speech. And Gutchluk Khan rode toward him slowly, afire with curiosity.

It came about by chance. The arrogant bearing of Gutchluk Khan must have alarmed the shorter man, who had the rough garb of a servant, very dusty and tattered. This man stepped in front of the khan with upraised staff.

“Put down the staff!” cried the khan harshly.

He was quick to mistrust—especially those who were strangers.

The man either did not understand or would not obey. He planted his feet doggedly and waited. His eyes shone from a dusty face. Gutchluk Khan spoke a quick word to his followers and one of them fitted arrow to bow.

The shaft sped and I saw the feathers stick from the throat of the man with the staff, under the chin. He coughed and fell to his knees, spitting blood. Then he lay flat in the road, moving slowly.

The tall man gave an exclamation and stepped to the side of the servant. He bent over and touched the arrow; then he stood up, drawing his long sword.

In his face was distress for the man who had died. Yet it had been only a servant. The fellow had been a fool to threaten Gutchluk Khan with his staff.

“These men are foreigners and infidels,” said the Uzbek loudly. I thought to myself that the religion of Gutchluk Khan was the faith of whatever lord he followed—Mohammedan, Uzbek or

Hindu. “They mean no good; we will take the sword of the tall one with the yellow mane and carry it to Jani Beg, who will be pleased.”

He made a sign to his two followers to close in on the stranger. The man threw back his cloak, resting his sword-point in the earth in front of him. He was not ill to look on, with his legs planted strongly, his straight body bending forward from the hips slightly and his head high. His face seemed drawn. Later I knew that he had not eaten for a day and night.

The slaying of the servant had not mattered, but this man had not the bearing of a common person. Moreover, it was one without armor, afoot, against three mounted and with mail vests. I reined my horse forward.

“Only a wild boar hunts in a pack, Gutchluk Khan,” I said. “Do you meet this man alone? He bears himself well. There will be more honor if you take his sword in fair play. Dismount! A coward seizes advantage when he can: a brave man will deal fairly with an adversary.”

The pig eyes of the Uzbek glittered from me to the stranger. He liked my words little. I think it had occurred to him that if the three attacked the Ferang they would leave their backs open to me. And, as I have said, the Uzbeks know how well I use a sword.

He whispered to his men, who fell to eyeing me. I was within arm’s reach and the way was narrow.

“If your servants slay the man and you take his weapon to Jani Beg, I shall tell the true story of what happened, Gutchluk Khan,” I said again, “And the bahadurs of Jani Beg will make mock of you.”

The words had their effect. The stupid Uzbek could not draw back now without disgrace. He scowled and whispered again to his men. Perhaps he urged them to put an arrow into me if chance offered. But it did not.

“So be it,” he said with bad grace and sprang from his horse.

He was eager to gain honor by carrying the Ferang’s weapon to his chief.

He dressed his round shield and drew his scimitar. That which followed was swift in passing and I saw it well—although I watched the two followers from the corner of my eye.

Gutchluk Khan ran against the tall Ferang, seeking to catch the other’s sword on his shield and cut him down with a scimitar stroke. Shields are a clumsy thing, useful for defense, but—is not a good thrust the best defense?

The tall Ferang poised his long sword straight before him and warded aside the scimitar. I saw that he watched not the weapon of Gutchluk Khan but the Uzbek’s eyes. That is the mark of a good fencer.

Truly, it was strange swordplay. The scimitar of Gutchluk Khan could not beat down the guard of the Ferang. And almost at once the Ferang’s weapon thrust under the shield and bent sharply against the mail vest.

He gave an exclamation at that and turned his attention to Gutchluk Khan’s neck. He was very cool and moved slowly; still, with good effect. Another moment and the straight sword had passed twice against Gutchluk Khan’s fat throat, over the armor, and blood flowed freely.

The two followers shouted and Gutchluk Khan squealed like a hurt pig. He was afraid he was dying and the cuts had melted his courage, like snow before the sun of the desert of Khorassan.

With their shields the two covered Gutchluk Khan from the thrusts of the Ferang while the Uzbek ran to his horse and mounted. The khan spurred away up the path whence he had first come, followed by his two, without further heed to me. I laughed, for he had squealed just like a pig.

They passed me at a gallop, going toward Khanjut.

“Lend me your horse and I will go after them,” cried the Ferang to me, coming to the bridle of Wind-of-the-Hills.

I laughed again. To none save Baber Shirzad Mir or the Mogul himself in battle would I render my horse.

He had spoken in broken Mogholi, a language which, in the spoken word, is my own. For writing, we use Turki.

“Nay,” I answered in the same tongue. “You would be a fool. They would send an arrow through you, and—I have need of Wind-of-the-Hills. I ride to Khanjut tonight.”

With that he glanced up the pass after the three angrily. Al-most, I think, he would have run after them afoot. Yet he should have been thankful that he was still alive.

Then he turned to the servant, who was dead by now. He lifted the man in his arms and I saw that his grave face was marked with grief. He glanced once at the stream; then he walked up the hillside a few paces to a great poplar tree. It was a noble tree, with wide branches. Here, using his sword and the servant’s staff, he fell to digging a grave between the roots of the poplar, where the soil was soft and there was no grass.

I could not help him, for it is forbidden. I dismounted, taking food—dried prunes and rice—from saddlebags. After washing in the stream, I sat and ate—after making the noonday prayer. It is well to pray and the hours of life that remained to me were uncertain. That night I was going to Khanjut—after that, who knows?

The Ferang did not cease his labors until he had hollowed out a hole sufficiently large to place the body in, when he doubled it up. Truly, that was an unwonted thing. The dead man had been a servant and the kites would have seen to the corpse. But the Ferang had unwonted thoughts.

When the grave was filled in with dirt, he brought several large stones, one after the other, and laid them on itso that the animals would not dig the body up. This done, he hacked a cross in the smooth bark of the poplar with his sword. He took off his hat and stood by the grave for the time that it took me to swallow four times.

It was a strange custom, even for a caphar—an unbeliever. The thought came to me that each race has its road to follow and at the end of the road, its shrine. I was meditating upon this and upon the skill with which the Ferang had used his straight sword when he came and stood by me.

Since then I have told many that the straight sword is a goodly weapon, but they would not believe—not having seen the Ferang use his.

“What was the name of the stout man who ordered my servant slain?” he asked.

I told him.

“He shall pay for what he did,” he said.

He spoke directly, as he had thrust with his sword, in a clear voice that came from his chest as if he knew what it was to give commands to many men.

“Where has Gutchluk Khan gone?” he said again.

“To Khanjut.”

He was silent, watching me eat. Then—“I have not had food for the space of a day and night,” he said.

I made room for him beside me. He was a caphar, but a brave man. He ate very much. I gave him all the prunes and rice, be-cause he was hungry and I did not know when I should eat again. When he had finished he sat back moodily.

Who was he? Where had he come from? What was his rank? I knew not. And there was the straight sword.

“Give me leave,” I begged politely, “to hold your weapon in my hand. I have not seen the like.”

He glanced at me quickly from his green eyes. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, he was my height, but broader through the chest and with more muscle on his forearms. His neck was round and firm and when he moved it was with the ease of one whose muscles are not slack. He had not put on his hat and the yellow hair curled around a broad, white brow. He was young—perhaps twenty-five.

“I heard what you said to Gutchluk Khan when the rascal was about to attack me with his two men,” he said in his broken

Mogholi. “For that I give thanks. Yet how am I to trust another with my sword? I have no other weapon.” His voice fell and I thought I heard him mutter, “Nor aught else.”

“You have eaten my bread and salt,” I reminded him. “And he who has done that is safe from harm at the hand of the giver of salt.”

He looked at me again and handed me the sword without an-other word. It felt strangely in my hand. It would have been hard to deal a good cut with it. Still, the steel was very fine. I thanked him.

“What is your name?” I inquired, for my curiosity had grown. “Weyand.”

“Wey-and,” I repeated. “Is that all the name?”

He told me that he was called Ralph Weyand; that he had the rank of Sir, or Ser in my tongue; that he had come from the country of Ferangistan, from a very large tribe, the English.

I had heard of them.

“Then you are a lord,” I asked, not quite believing, for he had neither attendants, rich garments or horses, and the title of Ser is not less than the Persian Shah.

“Nay,” he said. “My rank is not more than that of khan among your people.”

That was little enough. Still, Sir Weyand carried himself like one accustomed to command.

He was a sailor—by which he meant khan of a ship—and a merchant. That is, he had not come to India to trade for himself but to make easy the way for others. After he had said that I would not have talked with him further—for a merchant is but a getter of coins, and a seaman is a man without wealth or honor—had it not been for two things.

He had used his straight sword well; and I was still curious.

Why was a man of the sea walking afoot in the hills of the Hindu Kush? Why was a merchant come to the highland of Badakshan, instead of the cities of Hindustan—Agra, Delhi and Lahore? Also, how had he learned Mogholi?

He told me all, sitting back against a willow and speaking sadly. I harkened, for I did not plan to reach Khanjut until night-fall. As for Sir Weyand, he must have cared little what he did. His was a great sadness.

Sir Weyand had been sent to India to the court of Jahangir by him who was the ameer of England. He had come, he said, in the service of his sovereign lord, the king. The English had a thought to make a company to trade with India. This they called the East India Company. They were merchants who knew something of fighting.

The Ferang had landed from his ship at Surat and had gone from thence to Agra. There, he had presented himself at the court of Jahangir. But he had few attendants and fewer presents. That was not well. As I, also, had learned at Kabul.

Likewise, the Ferang made enemies. In those years the Portuguese were in favor with Jahangir—the Portuguese, whose priests and traders had come from Goa and were at Agra.

The Portuguese, said Sir Weyand, knew that if the English received permission to trade in India for the East India Company, their own traffic would be hurt. I knew naught of merchants and their ways, but the Ferang said it and it may have been true.

The priests of the Portuguese had contrived to persuade Jahangir that the English were robbers. Sir Weyand was not granted a second audience. Some of his followers had died from illness; others returned to the ship.

Sir Weyand said the priests had tried to poison him. I know not. Priests, who are not warriors, may not be trusted. They had cut him off from his ship.

When Sir Weyand learned that Jahangir had been turned against him, he sent a message to the Mogul that he would re-turn to the Presence. He swore this on an oath—that he would return to the court and gain the right to trade for the East India Company.

Then he went into northern Hindustan with one servant and studied Mogholi with certain kwajahs—learned men. He had come to distrust the interpreter of the court. And so he mastered Mogholi. But the priests had tracked him, and because they were afraid, they were dangerous. The Ferang had been attacked by paid men; he had left Kabul to seek refuge in the hills.

That was his tale. Much I believed, for he spoke frankly; some I could not believe.

“How is it,” I asked, “that the Portuguese, who are Christians, wish your death, when you are also a Christian? It is not fitting.”

“In your religion, Abdul Dost,” he replied after a moment, “there are many sects. Are they always at peace?”

“Nay.”

“Neither am I at peace with priests of Agra. We are two sects. Likewise Portugal is bitter to the English.”

“Then,” I said at once, for here was a plain puzzle, “why does not the ameer of the English make war upon the ameer of the Portuguese and try the issue by the sword?”

“We do not seek war, but peace.” The Ferang looked long and thoughtfully at the distant snow peaks of the Hindu Kush. “War, perhaps, will come; if so we will have the victory.”

“Meanwhile,” I pointed out, “the Portuguese hold the favor of the Mogul and you are an outcast from Hindustan, like the lepers of Kashgar—not otherwise.”

This being true, he said nothing.

“What do you plan to do?” I asked.

“In time,” he said, “I shall return, as I have sworn, to the court of Jahangir, and the Mogul will hear my message.”

Verily, this was strange. The Ferang had no thought of fate. It seemed that his fate was assured—as he was alone in the hills, his servant slain, without food or money. He had neither horse nor armor. Yet he spoke with conviction.

Some have said that it was not fitting that I, a mansabdar and warrior, should be named Abdul—the man of books. This, like many other riddles, may have been one of the unseen ways of

God. For I, by dint of fighting through many lands, had become a speaker of three languages; wherefore my account of the fighting in Badakshan in the year of the Ox has been written down by the Mogul’s scribes in the annals of Mohulistan.

What is written is written. It was fate that brought Sir Weyand to me in the Pass of Shyr. And from this meeting was born the strange event at Khanjut that night.

Even as I had questioned the Ferang, he asked many things of me. And I told him what lay so heavy on my heart—the captivity of Baber Shirzad Mir, the Tiger Lord of Badakshan.

We were of an age, Shirzad Mir and I, although the mir’s curling beard was gray and his hawk eyes set in wrinkles. We had fought from Herat to Samarkand against the neighboring Uzbeks of Turkestan.

Before dawn on the coming night Shirzad Mir was to be bow-stringed. His wives had already been taken by Jani Beg, who was holding the women for the coming of his son, Said Afzel, from Kabul the next day or the day after. And Shirzad Mir had no sons.

“It was the will of God,” I explained to the Ferang, who had listened closely, “that this heaviness should be laid upon us. No man may escape his fate.”

“Then Shirzad Mir is a rebel—against Jahangir?”

I put my hand on my sword and scowled.

“Eh, Ferang,” I said, being angry, “that is an ill word! You know not what you say. When a Mogul dies, the chieftains of the tribes send to pay fealty to the new Mogul—or they revolt. Shirzad Mir did not revolt. But Jani Beg had the first word to Jahangir at the court. He offered to take the hill country of Badakshan from Shirzad Mir—who had not yet sent homage, the distance to Agra being great.”

And I told him how our fortunes—the fortune of Shirzad Mir— had fallen. Again he listened.

“If Shirzad Mir could live,” he said, “he might make his peace with Jahangir. The Mogul would forgive him the war for the sake of the mir’s service to Akbar.”

I was silent. The Ferang knew not the ways of the court. Jani Beg had been clever. And he held Badakshan in the palm of his hand. Likewise, the memory of a Mogul is short.

“So you are going to Khanjut,” went on Sir Weyand, “to make an effort to save your lord?”

“Nay,” I said. “No man may escape his fate. Shirzad Mir will go to the mercy of God tonight and perhaps I shall keep him company. I shall ride in front of the gate of Khanjut and shout an insult to the men within. Riders will come forth, and of these I may slay several before I am slain. This will be an honor to Shirzad Mir. For there will be one man to strike a blow for him, even when his hour has come.”

“Then you are a greater fool than I, Abdul Dost,” he replied. “How?”

“Because Jani Beg has the upper hand, you say it is your fate to die.”

“It may be written that I shall slay the men at the gate of Khanjut and live,” I pointed out.

“Your fate, Abdul Dost, lies with Shirzad Mir; if you are a true follower of his, you will try to save his life.”

“It may not be.”

I lay back and watched the white flecks of clouds moving across the blue, blue veil of the sky above the pine-tips of the hills. They were like foam flung from the muzzle of a horse. The Ferang was silent for a long time, perhaps the time that it takes milk to boil.

“What manner of place is Khanjut, Abdul Dost?”

Now Khanjut is the citadel of Badakshan, for the great city of Balkh has dirt walls and is not easily defended; the Pass of Shyr ends at Khanjut. Wherefore the citadel is called in the language of my people the Iron Gate—Khalga Timur. Caravans bound from Kabul to Kashgar and Balkh pass by it. It was built in the time of the first Mogul, of stone from the quarries, and it has walls to four times the height of a man. Also four towers built inside, to

command the walls. It is a small fortress, made to be held by a picked army. And it had never been taken by storm.

“Jani Beg has made his camp within the walls,” I said, “with fifteen hundred horsemen and as many more bazaar followers. An outpost is kept at the cliff gate. Sentries are on the walls at night.”

“And where is Shirzad Mir kept?”

“In the tower by the hill.”

So the sheep-boy had told me.

“Can the cliff be climbed?”

I laughed. Many had tried it during the siege. But the cliff is the height of many spears, facing the plain. Below it runs the caravan track. On the top—as those who climbed it learned—is dug a moat against the castle wall.

In the rainy season and in Summer, when the snows on the peaks melt, the water from the river beside which we sat is at the flood. God has given this fine water to Khanjut and Badakshan. It flows from its gorge into a covered way, built cleverly of brick, which leads into the citadel from the hillside of Khanjut. Thus, we have water for drinking and to fill the moat.

So much I told the Ferang.

“Is the stream at flood now?” he asked.

“Nay; it is the season of harvest, when the snows above have melted and the rain is not yet.”

He sat near me, nursing his sword. I was fain to sleep, for I would need my strength that night, but still he talked.

“Are any followers of Shirzad Mir within call, Abdul Dost?”

“Nay—save for old Iskander Khan, the Kirghiz, who with his two striplings of sons tends sheep on the mountain near Khan-jut.”

“He is a friend?”

“Aye. He fought in the siege of the citadel until the time of surrender; then he slipped away to the hills, with others. But he is old.”

“Could you reach him by nightfall?”

“If it suited me.”

“Has he cattle with his sheep?”

“Doubtless.”

“And he loved Shirzad Mir?”

“All did,” I answered, sitting up and thinking of the Tiger Lord, “who followed him and heard his voice ring out in battle.” “Where does Iskander Khan keep the cattle?”

“Out of eyeshot of the walls of Khanjut, or Jani Beg would have taken them. In the hills, an hour’s fast ride from the citadel.” “Where goes the caravan track from Khanjut?”

“It passes under the cliff, fords the stream which flows down over the cliffs, and passes straight out into the plain.”

“Does Iskander Khan keep his sheep and cattle at the right hand or the left of this pass?”

I was becoming angry with long questioning; yet there was a purpose in the words of the Ferang.

“As we leave the pass,” I said, “Khanjut is close on the right hand, with the Amu Daria—the stream—on that side. Iskander Khan’s aul is away to the left.”

For a long space Sir Weyand stroked his sword in silence. Then he stooped and gathered up a little dust in his hand.

“See you this dust, Abdul Dost?” he said, looking at me strangely. “By it, and the will of God, we may save Shirzad Mir this night.”

I stared. The Ferang was a merchant and an unbeliever. How could he hope to do what the army of Jani Beg had not done— break into Khanjut?

“It may not be,” I said.

We were two men with one horse, without firearms or food. The Ferang had spoken of Iskander Khan; but the Kirghiz was an old man, lacking strength to swing a sword. The two striplings of the khan were apt at herding, or perhaps a bowshot; still, they could not be reckoned on in a fight.

And it would take fighting and good sword-strokes to gain inside the walls of Khanjut. Once there, we would yet have to

assault the tower wherein was Shirzad Mir. Also we could not know how many men guarded him. Even could we gain my lord, we three, horseless, would be pent within the walls. The dark of the coming night would not aid us overmuch, for there would be a clear moon.

“Nay,” I said, thinking of these things, “it may not be.” “How far can you see in the moonlight, Abdul Dost?”

“As much as a bowshot,” I responded—for moonlight obscures

outlines, as if you were looking through very fine silk. “Then it may be done.”

Surely, I thought, the Ferang could have no real plan—for what have moonlight and dust to do with the way into Khanjut? Still, he was not content.

“What will cattle do if they see danger approaching from a certain quarter and are not sure what the danger is?” he questioned.

“They will face toward it and prick up their ears. Then, if it is real danger, they will push together and lower their horns.”

“Are humans so different from cattle?” he said, more to him-self than to me. “And it has not rained for two weeks in this country.”

I looked him full in the eyes.

“Have you a plan?”

“Aye,” he said, “a plan.”

And he told me what it was. I listened carefully. Truly, it was a strange thought that had come to him, sitting with me in the Shyr Pass.

When he had finished I remained silent for a long time. Then I asked why he was willing to do this thing.

“I am now without friends, Abdul Dost,” he replied. “If we save Shirzad Mir, I will at least have one friend—nay, two.” He smiled at me.

Later I came to understand that he looked further ahead than this, into the veiled future that only astrologers can pierce.

“Gutchluk Khan will warn Jani Beg that he has seen me, and they will guess that I come to Khanjut tonight,” I told the Ferang. “They will watch—”

“So much the better,” he said and laughed, stretching his powerful arms. This was a good omen—that a man should laugh be-fore battle.

“I will do as you say,” I agreed. “It may be our fate—” “Our fate, Abdul Dost, is in our own hands.”

Whereupon we rose up and went to Wind-of-the-Hills, who was cropping grass near the grave. Sir Weyand mounted behind me and Wind-of-the-Hills carried double down the pass as far as the first villages, which are around Khanjut.

Here we turned aside to the left, along paths known to me, and passed through the ravines that led to the aul of Iskander Khan. We went quickly, for time was short.

The sun had left the ravines and the shadows were long out in the plain of Badakshan that we could see through the willow groves when we came out on the encampment of the Kirghiz. He and his sons and daughter were at sunset prayers.

Iskander Khan took the bridle of my horse and greeted me warmly. His encampment was shrewdly placed to escape the eye of Jani Beg’s foragers; the sheep lay about it among the trees and the ground was black with their dried droppings. Further out, at the edge of the plains, the two boys had left the cattle. Their ponies were standing at the door of Iskander Khan’s tent.

When we had dismounted we ate food with Iskander Khan, who glanced curiously at the Ferang but asked no questions, knowing that I would explain in due time.

When the meal was done I talked to Iskander Khan alone, as had been agreed upon between me and Sir Weyand. I told him what we wanted done.

“It is to save the life of Shirzad Mir,” I ended, “if God so wills.” Iskander Khan was silent for a very long time, because I had asked a great thing of him.

“L’a iloha ill Allah,” he said at length. “For what Shirzad Mir has done for me, and what his father did for my father, I will do this thing.”

“At the beginning of the third watch of the night,” I repeated, “when the shadows of Khanjut’s four towers fall across the caravan track—then is the time.”

Again he promised. And the Ferang left the encampment with me. Darkness was falling, but who should know the paths of the Badakshan foothills better than I?

We pressed forward quickly, running at times, holding our swords so they would not strike against our legs. Wind-of-the-Hills I left with Iskander Khan, for where we were going the horse could not take us. We went due east, crossing, in the second hour of the night, the caravan track of Shyr down which we had come, and entered the ravines on the further side. Here we began to climb, going up, up, until our breath came in pants.

Many to whom I have told these things have doubted at this point that what I said was true. This was because there were three weak links in the chain by which we hoped to pull Shirzad Mir free of Khanjut.

One of the weak links was Iskander Khan. We had put our trust in the old Kirghiz and risked our lives on his spoken word. If he should fail us, we should die. The other links were my knowledge of Khanjut and the wit of the Ferang. If either did not serve us, the plan of Sir Weyand would fail, Shirzad Mir would be slain at dawn, after the banquet that Jani Beg was holding that night—and we would be dealt with likewise.

Another thing: we were not going to enter a citadel held by foolish Hindus or drunken Sarts, but by warlike Uzbeks—and there are few better soldiers—and my countrymen of Badakshan who had joined the standard of Jani Beg.

So many who have heard this doubted. I also doubted at the time when we were climbing among the heights behind Khanjut. But Sir Weyand was full of cheerful words and I was ashamed to speak my doubts. Besides, we had agreed with Iskander Khan.

A horseman is at loss when afoot and I was leg-weary by the time we gained the precipice over the stream of the Amu Daria.

Perhaps because of this, or because he was accustomed to command men, the Ferang assumed the leadership in spite of my better knowledge of the place.

Hai—it was a good sight when we stood on the cliff over the stream. In the East, in our faces, the full moon—that of harvest— rose among the tall cedars and poplars. The silver mistress of the earth rose into the sky and pointed her finger down into the ravine through which muttered the hidden little river.

Looking down the gorge, we could see in the distance below us the black walls of Khanjut and beyond, in the green haze, the plain of Badakshan. The four towers stood out against the haze and I thought of Shirzad Mir, who was making his final ablutions in one of them, the one nearest us.

We could not see the sentries on the walls. Still, they were there. Jani Beg was a careful leader, as I had learned to my cost. Afterward, I heard that because of the warning of Gutchluk Khan the guards had been doubled, and also the outpost in front of the one gate of Khanjut that looked out over the plain. Truly I have something of a name as a warrior in Badakshan, for all this they did on my account.

Higher rose the moon, until it topped the cedars across the gorge. We had gained our breath by now.

“It is the beginning of the second watch of the night—even later,” meditated Sir Weyand. “Know you a path down the cliff?”

There was no path. But at a point near where we stood I had seen goats descend the precipice in my youth. We went down, helping each other as best we could. It was an evil half hour.

Once Sir Weyand’s heavy shoes slipped and he clung to a ledge with his fingers until I could reach him. Another time I fell the length of two spears, being checked by a stunted tree. It bruised me badly and strained the muscles of one armpit.

Had it not been for the moon we could not have done what we did. Perhaps in daylight we would not have tried it. The green haze of the silver light concealed the perils of the way. B ’illah! A man is not a goat!

When we sat at the bottom of the cliff, with our feet in the water of the stream, the sweat was running from my chin. Sir Weyand, having suffered no hurt, left me and returned bearing the trunk of a dead cedar.

“The second watch is two-thirds passed,” I said, looking up at the stars.

I had had command of sentries in the night too often to be mistaken.

“Soon you will be cool,” laughed the Ferang, who threw him-self down by me to rest.

I doubt, however, if he was tired. The man had good muscles and carried his weight easily, whereas I was not used to climbing or walking.

He stripped the branches from the cedar with his sword. As he did so he sang to himself a deep song of his tribe which I did not understand. He was a strange merchant. No man of our bazaars would have climbed down the cliff of the Amu Daria or sung to himself when about to enter Khanjut in the face of the men of Jani Beg. I wondered how he would bear himself in what was to come, in Khanjut. I doubted then if he would see another sun— for in a skirmish a man must look out for himself and I must see to Shirzad Mir.

“Come,” he said; “it is time to go forward.”

So I rose, being stiff with my bruise, and stepped into the river, carrying one end of the cedar and he the other. It was not deeper than our waists, since this was the dry season.

The moon was almost directly over our heads when we came near the end of the gorge. Here we could see the walls of the castle plainly, some five bowshots in front of us. We could hear the sentries crying one to the other. And the shouting in the bazaars around the walls, where the camp-followers were feasting at Jani Beg’s bidding.

Then we stepped forward and, stooping over, entered the covered way through which the stream ran into the moat of

Khanjut—into the moat and under the wall to the great reservoir which stores water for Khanjut in time of siege.

The cedar floated in front of us and we gripped it. At times the water was over our heads, and these times we swam, holding the tree. Often we struck our heads against the brick above, for the tunnel was not large.

The current gripped us and thrust us forward into the dark. We went quickly down, down. Aye, we were little better than the big water-rats that swam away from us, as our wet clothing pulled at us and our swords tugged at their girdles.

The worst was when we came to the arch that marks the wall of Khanjut. Here the tunnel closes down on the water and we were thrust under the surface. It was an ill moment. The cedar caught and we left it, swimming forward. Sir Weyand caught me and jerked me with him, for he swam well.

The evil passed. As I had known we must, we rose up through the water presently to the surface of the reservoir and caught our breath—with great gasps. The Ferang drew me with him until our hands touched stone and we sat on the side of the cistern where the women come with their water jugs.

The tank was built after the Hindu fashion, roofed over, with stairs and balconies leading down to the water. Thus it provided a cool spot in the hot season. We waited not to rest but climbed the steps and passed through the galleries until we stood at the door, where were some women looking out into the street. They were wringing their hands and clutching at their hair.

“What has come upon us?” I asked them, for I heard horses galloping about the courtyards.

I was glad of the dark, for my face is known in Khanjut.

“It is the enemy,” they cried. “The sentries have sounded the call. Some men of Shirzad Mir, led most like by the accursed outlaw Abdul Dost, are at hand.”

These words told me we were late. I signed to Sir Weyand and ran forth into the streets, keeping in the shadows and avoiding the torches some horsemen carried. Following back alleys, I came to the tower where I had heard Shirzad Mir was.

Before the door of the tower a hulking Kurd leaned on his spear. He stared at the form of the Ferang, who was close on my heels.

“Gutchluk Khan has sent for us,” I cried quickly, lest he be-come suspicious, “to come here. Where is Jani Beg?”

“With the horsemen at the gate,” answered the Kurd, still looking at the Ferang. “Gutchluk Khan is within, watching from the tower.”

“Doubtless he is guarding Shirzad Mir,” I said calmly, for this thing I needed to know.

“Two men guard the mir before the door on the third landing.”

I think the man—although he could not see our faces—was ill at ease. Yet we were going into the tower and not out, and Gutchluk Khan was within. So we pushed past him and began to climb the stair, for there was no time to be lost. Already we were late.

We climbed up in silence. I was listening to the clatter outside the tower. Men were crying and running about. There was much noise. Plainly the Uzbeks had been alarmed. And our period of grace was nearly over.

Embrasures in the walls lighted our path up. But at the second landing Sir Weyand checked me and pointed from the embrasure.

We were now higher than the walls of Khanjut. Beyond the walls and the roofs of the buildings we saw the plain. Over it lay the haze of moonlight.

And far out on the plain we saw a great cloud of dust. It was moving nearer to the gate of Khanjut, coming from the West and circling. In the dust we caught a flicker of light here and there, reflected on something hard—also streamers that might have been attached to spears. In front of the cloud of dust a horseman was wheeling.

In the plain below us Jani Beg’s men were gathering in ranks as they emerged from the pathway that led down at one side of the cliff. They formed swiftly. Jani Beg was a good leader. Our time

was short. Already one or two horsemen were riding out toward the dust.

Sir Weyand noted all this and turned to me.

“Iskander Khan has kept his word,” he said.

I thought to myself that Iskander Khan would never see his cattle or his sheep again. It was the reflection of moonlight on their horns we had seen and the streamers in the dust were rags tied to the horns of bullocks. The rider in front of the herd was one of the boys of Iskander Khan.

Truly, the stripling made a brave show—although we could barely see him at that. He must have shot arrows at the horsemen who were coming out, for they hesitated, waiting for the main body of Uzbeks to come up.

It is written that the faith of a true man is firm as steel. Sorrow came upon Iskander Khan for that night’s work. Did he not render the service, however, to Shirzad Mir?

So far the plan of Sir Weyand had borne fruit. While the eyes of the Uzbeks were all turned to the plain, we were in the tower. And on the landing above, thanks to the confusion which had followed sounding the alarm, there were only two men.

They were sitting on their haunches, two mail-clad Uzbeks. But they sprang to their feet at sight of the Ferang running up the steps. Here was no time for talk.

I drew my scimitar and struck at the first man, leaping to the landing at his side. He warded clumsily and my second stroke bit deep into his neck through the shoulder muscles. He sank to his knees.

The Ferang, I saw, was engaged with the second man, his long sword thrusting silently at the fellow’s neck. The shouts below drowned the dull mutter of steel against steel. I had seen the Ferang use his weapon and I wasted no time in turning from him to the door.

Two strong bars were in place. These I pulled down and threw open the door.

Within, a broad figure rose to its feet from kneeling over a wash basin. My heart rose in me as sap rushes up a tree in Spring. For here was Shirzad Mir, clad in the clean garments in which he was to go to his death.

I caught his hand, while he stared, and touched it to my fore-head. God gave me great happiness in that moment!

“Come with us, Lord of Badakshan,” I cried. “We have little time.”

Behind me I heard the second man fall to the floor. Shirzad Mir lacked not wit. In a second we had passed out of the door.

I looked for the Ferang but he was not to be seen. Shirzad Mir and I could not wait. We were obliged to be free of the walls of Khanjut before Jani Beg’s horsemen should discover the trick we had played on them and rein back toward the castle. And there was but one gate.

Verily, I was rejoiced to see the curling beard and stout figure of my lord. The Kurd spearman at the tower entrance gave no trouble. Before he could turn I had struck him once with the flat of my sword under the ear and he fell to earth like a stricken ox.

Nevertheless, we waited at the tower gate while a man could drink a beaker of wine slowly.

“There was one with me, lord,” I explained to Shirzad Mir. “Then we must wait,” he said, being an upright man.

The skin prickled up and down my back while we lingered, for

it was foolhardy of the Ferang to delay.

Then he came and I nearly struck him, for he had put on an Uzbek turban. It was well, though, for when we ran from the tower and sought out two horses which I had marked in the courtyard nearby, none of the Uzbeks noticed him. One horse Shirzad Mir mounted. The other I gave the Ferang, running by his stirrup from the courtyard to the outer gate.

I had feared that Gutchluk Khan would have seen us from the tower. No one challenged us, however, as we fled through the gate among the scattered horsemen. In a night alarm there is much confusion and no man knows his neighbor.

At the bottom of the cliff path we left the horsemen and struck through the camp bazaar, where there was great outcry and running about of women and slaves. I was watching for a horse to seize. None was to be had; yet on the edge of a village I spied a kulan—a wild ass. This, being desperate, I seized and mounted.

Then I rode after Shirzad Mir, who was leading the way into the ravines.

Truly, many have laughed at me when they heard I had ridden a wild ass to safety. Nevertheless, few have ridden such. It was no easy matter to stick to the beast’s back.

Shirzad Mir was laughing at my riding. Perhaps I did cling to the kulan’s neck. Who would not? It was I who led the way into the forest of the hills back of Khanjut. We rode until the night was spent.

Then, in the dawn, which is the blessing of light, we dismounted in a grove and stretched on the ground. Shirzad Mir was still laughing at my riding. To take his mind from that and to satisfy my curiosity, I asked Sir Weyand why he had risked our lives by delaying at the tower.

The Ferang, who was lying beside me, stretched his arms over his head.

“I went to find Gutchluk Khan,” he said.

“Did you find him?” asked Shirzad Mir, watching him, for, despite the turban, he had noted the strange dress of the Ferang.

“Aye,” said Sir Weyand and threw the turban from him. “That was his.”