Yet another scene in the tragedy remains to be told.  It is a cold bleak day in early winter.  On one side stand the blackened, bullet-riddled ruins of the Residency, much as we saw them last.  To the left, drawn up as a guard, is a long double line of British soldiers with, bayonets fixed.  Behind them, covering every coign of vantage, every roof and wall, are crowds of Afghans, silent, subdued, and expectant.  In the centre, in an open space, stands a little group of British officers, one of whom holds a paper from which he reads.  Facing the ruined Residency is a long grim row of gallows; below these, bound hand and foot and closely guarded is a row of prisoners.  A signal is given, and from every gibbet swings what lately was a man.  These are the ringleaders in the insensate tragedy, who, brought to justice by the strong resistless power of British bayonets, hang facing the scene of their infamy, for a sign throughout the length and breadth of Asia of the righteous fate that overtakes those who disgrace the law of nations.

CHAPTER IX

THE AFGHAN WAR, 1878-80

The Afghan War of 1878-80 lives chiefly in the memory of all as connected with the rise to fame of one who has since earned a place in English history with Marlborough and Wellington.  And coupled with his name remains indelibly engraved the great historic march from Kabul to Kandahar.

Though they took no part in that celebrated march, being so reduced in numbers by the stress of war after two years’ arduous campaigning that fresh regiments took their place, yet the Guides look back with the greatest pride to having once served under Lord Roberts, and to having earned the kindly praise of this great Captain.  To this day grey-bearded old warriors speak with quiet pride and affection of their fighting days with “Roberts Sahib” at Kabul; and many an old eye kindles and bent back straightens as they salute his picture in the mess.  Some, too, will remember the exact place and date on which he shook hands with them, and congratulated them on some brave deed, as he pinned the star for valour on their breasts.

It is given to few men to gain the affection and soldierly respect of all, but Roberts possessed the two great merits in the eyes of the simple Indian soldier.  He was always kind and considerate, though firm as a rock, and always brave:  kind with the kindness which is never weary of watching over the welfare of all, never forgetting a friend however humble, and always remembering those little soldier courtesies which count for so much; brave not only with the bravery that wins the Victoria Cross, but which, stout of heart, looks clear and undaunted through the dark storm of a winter like that of 1879 at Kabul; and still burns bright when at seventy years of age he goes forth at his Queen’s behest to turn back the dark tide of defeat in 1899, and bring back victory to her standards.