One hears, too, the Russian advance daily discussed and harped upon all over India, until it becomes as real a fact as the Aryan migration or the Mogul invasion, and one wishes to see where the next great history-making incident will certainly occur—the theater where the greatest world-drama since Timur's time will be played. One becomes so familiar with this fixed idea of the Russians coming down through the Khyber Pass and snatching the great jewel of the British crown, that he can jest with British friends about all Anglo-India lying awake of nights, frightened by the Russian bogy, and can advise them to rent the Panjab to Russia outright, and so have it over with quickly, and enjoy sound sleep again. But the Briton takes his northwest frontier—his many frontiers—seriously, sees the Russian hand in every little border war, and finds no humor in the charge that every time he cries, "The Russian! The Russian!" as Afridis, Waziris, and Kafirs revolt, he is playing the part of the boy who too often cried, "The wolf! The wolf!"—albeit this boy claims to have found many incriminating documents and positive proof of the trail of the Muscovite wolf in the abandoned camps and villages of warring tribesmen.
It was bitterly cold that night in the government house of rest for travelers; and as the two opposite doors of our grand salon of a room gave directly upon garden and court, we had sweeps of icy air through it whenever a servant entered, and such currents across the floor from two-inch cracks
