Eyes of the Dead
By Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner
Mahbub, the Afghan hillman, went far to avenge the
death of his kinsman, Yar Khan
"Salaam, Sikar Bahadur!"
Officer Trowbridge turned swiftly at the sound of the familiar voice. Through shrewd gray eyes he took in the form of the gaunt, emaciated hillman who stood in the doorway. The voice was as familiar as this apparition was strange.
"Now is my heart sad, Trowbridge sahib, oh my friend! For we two have spoken together with naked hearts and our hands have dipped into the same dish and thou hast been to me as a brother! Yet now thou knowest me not! Ahi! Ahi!"
The Englishman started from his seat:
"Mahbub, by God!"
"By Allah, the Dispenser of Justice—by Allah-al-Mumit; it is I." The tall hillman seated himself wearily upon the cloth he spread upon the floor.
Trowbridge looked upon him with pained eyes. Was this the smart, trim native officer to whom he had given permission to leave the Thana [police station] on private business six weeks before? He looked into the burning, sunken eyes, glowing restlessly—had the man slept at all since he left? He eyed the soiled, travel-stained garments—never had he seen Mahbub in clothing so filthy or so disordered! Was this indeed the officer who had been the pride of the Thana; was this his trusted right hand who would follow a criminal even to the gates of Jehanum?
"I am returned, as was my promise to the Presence."
Trowbridge nodded slowly.
"And now, I pray you, give me permission to depart from the Presence. Great honor has the sahib shown me."
"You would now leave the service of the British Raj, Mahbub?" Trowbridge asked slowly, his eyes upon the lean figure before him. The Afghan shook his head.
"Nay, oh Trowbridge sahib. I am weary. The way was long, my brother. My clothes are fouled because of the dust upon the Great Road. My eyes are sad because of the glare of the sun. My feet are swollen because I have washed them in bitter water, and my cheeks are hollow because the food was bad."
Commissioner Trowbridge tapped a bell beside his elbow. To the fat Bengali servant who appeared he gave a few short swift orders. Presently that mountainous one reappeared bearing a tray whereon reposed two tall tinkling glasses, their sides beaded with moisture. He set the tray down upon the flat-topped desk and unobtrusively withdrew, casting one long sharp glance at the ragged, dirty figure sitting impassive upon the floor.
"He knew thee not, Mahbub, save as an Afridi. He is new here with me since thy going, oh my friend." Trowbridge picked up one of the glasses and stretched it out toward the Afghan, who shook his head in firm negation.
"Drink! It is but the chilled juice of mangoes." The hillman took it from him, sipping the cool contents slowly.
"And now, before I give thee permis-
