Chapter XIII: A Daring Attempt

It may have been simple caprice, or even the spirit of contradiction, or possibly a more generous emotion roused by the sight of wrong done to one who had rescued his child, that made Assad Khan now treat his wounded captive with something like kindness. Whatever was the cause of the chief's conduct, Walter benefited by the change. He was raised from the ground and placed on a charpai. The old barber, who in the fort acted the part of a surgeon, which he did with skill acquired by much practice, dressed the wound in the shoulder, bound up the ankle, and applied a lotion of herbs to reduce the swelling which had already begun. A brass vessel filled with milk, and an abundance of delicious fruit, were brought for the suffering youth; and with a consideration which surprised him, some of the contents of his own plundered carpet-bag, which afforded Walter the relief of a change of clothes. Assad Khan asked his captive whether he preferred remaining below, or being carried up to the room which he had occupied with the other Feringhee. Walter unhesitatingly chose to return to Denis. By the chief's order he was carried up on the charpai, and over him Assad Khan threw a large and handsome wrap, something between a rug and a blanket, acquired--we need not inquire how.

Denis, who had watched the latter part of the proceedings from the top of the stair, was really distressed at the sight of his injured friend. Walter was gratified at beholding his companion's unfeigned sorrow, for he saw unbidden tears rising to the Irishman's eyes. But when the Afghans who had carried up the wounded captive had quitted the room, and the prisoners were left to themselves, the deepest source of Denis's trouble became apparent.

"The most unlucky thing that could have happened!" he cried. "You are lamed for ever so long. I know what a sprain is, for I had one when my horse came down in leaping a ditch. It's worse than breaking a bone. You won't be able for weeks to do more than hop round the room?"

"Not a very wide circle to hop round," observed Walter with a smile.

"No joking matter!" cried Denis impatiently. "How can you make your escape with me if you are utterly lame?"

"Lame or not, I see no way of either of us making our escape," observed Walter.

"But I do--at least I will. Do you think that I am going to wait here like Patience on a monument grinning at Afghans, till a ransom is paid that would make me a beggar?"

Walter was too weary to reply. He felt utterly exhausted by the effects of his fall. The youth fell into a deep sleep which lasted for hours, and awoke, though still in pain, greatly revived and refreshed.

During the sleep of his comrade, how busy had been the thoughts of Dermot Denis, what a struggle had been going on in his mind! Denis was not much given to thinking, except in the way of building castles in the air, or forming ingenious schemes for accomplishing some plan which he had taken into his head. Almost new to him was the exercise of considering whether what he wished to do were right or wrong; but his judgment was forced on that exercise now. Denis had two courses open before him, and the one on which his heart was set would involve an action which his better nature knew to be base--desertion of the faithful and generous friend whom he himself, by his folly and self-will, had drawn into danger.

"Walter is evidently a favourite here; no one would injure him," said Denis to himself, as he strode up and down the narrow space of his prison. "To remain beside him would do him no good. Were I once in India I could take effectual means for his rescue. It is better for him that I should fly."

Thus, by arguing with himself, Denis tried to drown the inward voice of honour--it could scarcely be called conscience--that told him that it would be cruel and base to leave Walter to the fury of savages baulked of their golden prize, and that it was selfishness that prompted the wish to do so. Denis's most effectual argument was the strength of his own desire. What world-wide fame he would acquire by accomplishing so daring a feat as escaping from a den of robbers! What a book of thrilling adventures he would write, which would not only be eagerly read in Britain, Ireland, and India, but would be translated into foreign tongues. The title of "Afghanistan Denis," the traveller who made the wonderful escape from the Eagle's Nest, would be more gratifying to his pride than could be the ribbon of the Bath. Thus reflected Denis, and he had succeeded in almost persuading himself that black was white, before Walter awoke from his sleep.

"How are you, old boy?" inquired Denis.

"Better, very much better. I cannot be too thankful to Him who has brought good out of evil. Denis, I feel such a hope----" Walter paused, for he was conscious that he was speaking to one who had no sympathy with any such hope.

"What is it?" inquired the Irishman; "I thought that you always left the hoping to me."

"I hope that I have been led here to do some good to these wild Afghans, and specially to that most interesting child Sultána."

"Do you mean that you have been self-appointed to act as a kind of honorary missionary in the Eagle's Nest--a shepherd--or rather a wolf-herd to a gang of Afghan robbers?"

"God can make use of the weakest instruments," said Walter, rather speaking to himself than to Denis. "It was certainly a mysterious Providence that led me here." Walter was thinking of the fiery cloudy pillar which he had prayerfully sought to follow.

"If any one can do good here, you will," said Denis; "the ruffians seem to be amazingly fond of your singing; you have certainly a capital voice. Do you think you could give the Afghans a little of your chanting now?"

Walter was surprised at such a proposal coming from Denis. He himself felt little equal to any bodily effort; but his voice was the one talent left to Walter in his prison, and he desired to use it to the uttermost for his Master. The young man let Denis draw his charpai to a position in front of the open door, so that Walter, by raising himself to a sitting posture, commanded a view of the court-yard, and looked directly down on the two wounded men. Ali Khan's expression of pleasure at seeing him, rewarded Walter for the little effort which he had made.

"Leave your blanket with me," said Dermot Denis. "The afternoon is so hot, you cannot possibly want it." Scarcely waiting for a word of consent, Denis carried off the wrap to a corner of the room which was quite out of view of the court-yard.

Walter's conduct on the late trying occasion had made a favourable impression on some of the Afghans. He was regarded as a gallant youth, who had scorned to deny his faith, even with a dagger at his throat. Whether that faith were true or false was a matter of utter indifference to many of the dwellers in the fort; they knew that Assad Khan had called the Moulvie--whatever in Pushtoo is equivalent to a humbug--and had turned him out of the place; what were they that they should dispute the judgment of their chief? Thus Walter began his singing under more favourable auspices than before, and had a larger circle of listeners. The prisoner not only chanted the account of the Prodigal Son, but was able to give a simple practical exposition of that story which perhaps, of all the Lord's parables, goes most directly to the listener's heart. Pain and weariness were forgotten; Walter was full of animation; he felt that he was giving the message of salvation to those who now heard for the first time that there is a Father in Heaven, ready to welcome His prodigals home.

Young Gurney sang and spoke for more than an hour; indeed, as long as his strength would hold out. An Afghan then came up the stair with a meal, which was a better one than Assad Khan had ever before sent to his captives.

"Take it from his hands--don't let the fellow come in!" cried Denis from his corner. "Tell him to close the door; we've had enough of the Afghans for this day at least."

Walter translated the request into Pushtoo; the food was placed on the charpai, and the door closed, but not locked. Walter turned to see why Denis delayed coming to share the dinner, and beheld with surprise the occupation in which his comrade was engaged.

Denis had that morning discovered a penknife in the pocket of Walter's coat, which he wore. It was to the Irishman a prize of priceless value. That penknife, with patient toil, he had been plying during the whole of the time that Walter had been engaged in missionary work.

"What are you doing?" exclaimed the astonished Walter; "cutting my--or rather the chief's blanket into strips!"

"Hist! I am preparing a rope."

"You are not dreaming of attempting the descent!"

"Not dreaming, but resolving and preparing," replied Denis, too much engaged--perhaps too much ashamed--to lift up his eyes.

Walter was deeply wounded, far more than he cared to show. He had already had reason to know that the former hero of his fancy was a far less noble being than he had believed him to be; he saw that Denis was thoughtless and selfish; but Walter would have indignantly repudiated the idea of his fellow-captive being able thus to desert a helpless, suffering friend, had he heard it from any lips but the Irishman's own. "_Put not your trust in princes, or in any child of men,_" thought Walter. "I would not, for all the gold of the Indies, have left him to bear the consequences of any flight of mine from this place."

"Don't wait dinner for me!" cried Denis; "I can find my way to my mouth by starlight, but cannot spare one second of daylight for my work, for one strip carelessly cut might cost me a broken neck."

"Will your rope be long enough?" asked Walter curtly.

"Thirty-six strips, each six feet long; that will reach some way down, even allowing for the knots," replied Denis.

"Can you trust your knots?"

"Most perfectly; I am famous for knots, I make them tighter than even those of wedlock."

A long pause of silence followed. It was broken by the impatient Denis.

"I say, Walter, don't dawdle so over your food; eat fast, and have done with it. I could get on twice as rapidly if you held the cloth whilst I cut it. The sun has almost set."

Walter did not refuse his help. Somewhat gloomily and silently he assisted the Irishman at his work. Denis laboured energetically; the strips were all divided at last, just as it became too dark to direct the knife.

Then came the tying of the knots. Denis strained them with all his might to be sure that they would not slip. Such work could be done in semi-darkness. It was by feeling, not by sight, that the rope was fastened to the iron hook in the wall, and first the end, then the remaining length let down through the window. During the last hour scarcely a word had been spoken.

"Denis, if you make your way down in safety, how will you find any path to the road?"

"Trust an Irishman for finding his way; it's an instinct," was the reply.

"Will your strength suffice for the journey on foot? You are likely to be pursued."

"Not till morning, at least," said Denis; "and to-morrow I shall be safe in India. I have strength enough for anything short of carrying off this fort on my shoulders. I have, ere now, walked fifty miles for a wager, and on the second day of our journey, thanks to that limping mule, we did not go far. But I'll prepare myself for my long trudge by a hurried meal ere I start."

Denis ate with feverish haste the food which he could not see. His dinner was despatched in three minutes. What remained he thrust into his pocket. "Now, I'm ready to be off!" he exclaimed; "hurrah for freedom and home!"

"Dermot," said Walter, earnestly, "we are about to part, probably never again to meet in this world. You are bound on a most dangerous journey, and I----" he cared not to finish the sentence. "Let us once more kneel down together, and commend ourselves, soul and body, to the care of a merciful God."

"Oh, I've no time for prayer!" cried Denis, impatiently; "you pray enough for us both. Now for a start! The first step is what puzzles me most--how to get through yon hole, seeing that my feet must go first, for I must not descend head downwards. But where there's a will there's a way!"

To facilitate his climb to the window, Denis dragged the charpai beneath it; but even when raised upon this, he could not bring his feet to the required elevation, though clinging to the rope to help him. The unexpected mechanical difficulty irritated the impetuous young man.

"Walter, I must climb on your shoulder."

"Perhaps you will remember that I am wounded," said Walter, coldly.

"Of course I don't mean your wounded shoulder; just stand up. Oh, I forget you are lame--how very provoking! Still you can give me some help."

At the cost of much suffering, the help was given; without it, notwithstanding his agility, and the desperate efforts which he made, Denis could not have accomplished his purpose. With one foot planted on the unwounded shoulder, maintaining his balance by means of the rope, Denis contrived to protrude the other foot through the hole. To make the first follow it was a feat painfully hard to accomplish, and every unsuccessful attempt caused actual agony to Walter. At length the long limbs of Denis were in outer air. But another annoyance was to be encountered. The width of the aperture hardly admitted the passage of shoulders so broad as those of the young Irishman. Denis pushed, struggled, gasped and groaned, sorely grazing his skin against the rough sides of the hole. Most terrible indeed would be his fate if he remained fixed as in a vice, his head and shoulders within the prison, his feet dangling helplessly in the air. For some minutes--terrible minutes--Denis was utterly unable to get in or out. The drops burst forth on his brow, as much from the dread that he would not be able to force his way through, as from the frantic efforts which he made to do so. At last--at last through the hole which had been so completely blocked up by the form of Denis as to leave the room in utter darkness, Walter could see the stars once more. There was a head still visible, then hands clinging to the knotted line; then they too disappeared--Dermot Denis was free!

Walter listened with breathless attention for any sound from below. He heard but the screech of the owl pursuing his nightly flight; even that familiar sound made him start. Then surely there was something like a crash on the brushwood low down. Had Denis reached the bottom of the descent? Walter had no means of judging by sight, but he got hold of the rope not far from the hook, and by pulling it ascertained that it was hanging loose, not strained tight by the weight of a man. Dermot must either have climbed down or have fallen,--which?

"Better unloose the knot now, and throw down the rope after him, that no clue remain as to how he made his escape," thought Walter.

He could not unloose the knot, but groped in the dark for the penknife. Walter's sprained ankle made every movement painful. The penknife was found at last, left open on the floor by Denis. Walter, standing on the charpai, cut the knot which he could not untie, and the end of the rope which had been fastened to it was drawn through the hole by the weight of the rest.

Walter could now do no more but prepare his soul by prayer, and his body by rest, for whatever the morrow might bring. He was engaged in fervent devotion, when a rude tramping on the stair and the sound of voices broke the stillness of midnight. The door was roughly thrown open. At the hour when he was least expected, Assad Khan, attended by men bearing torches, and one small form gliding noiselessly behind, entered the prisoners' room.