It is a ludicrous and yet a strangely touching spectacle to see these three poor devils grovelling and pleading before me, and at the same time praying to Allah for protection in the little bala-khana, hoping thereby to save themselves from cruel mutilation and lifelong disgrace.  A watchful eye is kept outside by the mirza, who does his groaning and praying near the door, and the sight of an Afghan approaching is the signal for a mute appeal for mercy from all three, and a transformation to ordinary attitudes and vocations, the completeness of which would do credit to professional comedians.

When a favorable opportunity presents, with much peering about to make sure of being unobserved, his comrades lower the khan down over the rear wall of the bala-khana, and a minute later they hoist him up again with the same show of caution.

Producing from his kammerbund a red handkerchief containing the stolen kerans, he advances and humbly lays it at my feet, at the same time kneeling down and implanting yet another osculatory favor on my geivehs.  Joyful at seeing my readiness to second them in keeping the matter hidden from stray Afghans that come dropping in, the guilty sowars are still fearful lest they have not yet secured my complete forgiveness.  Consequently, the khan repeatedly appeals to me as “bur-raa-ther,” lays his forefingers together, and enlarges upon the fact that we have passed through the dangers and difficulties of the Dasht-i-na-oomid together.  The dread spectre of possible mutilation and disgrace as the consequence of their misdeeds pursues these guileful, grown-up children even in their dreams.  All through the night they are moaning and muttering uneasily in their sleep, and tossing restlessly about; and long before daybreak are they up, prostrating themselves and filling the room with rapidly muttered prayers, The khan comes over to my corner and peers anxiously down into my face.  Finding me awake, he renews his plea for mercy and forgiveness, calling me “bur-raa-ther” and pleading earnestly “Hoikim no, hoikim no!”

The sharp-eyed wearer of the big busby, the cavalry sword, and red jack-boots turns up early next morning.  He dropped in once or twice yesterday, and being possessed of more brains than the three sowars put together, he gathered from appearances, and his general estimation of their character, that all is not right.  These suspicions he promptly communicated to his master.  Aminulah Khan is only too well acquainted with the weakest side of the Persian character, and at once jumps to the conclusion that the sowars have stolen my money.  Sending for me and summoning the sowars to his presence, without preliminary palaver he accuses them of robbing me of “pool.”  Addressing himself to me, he inquires:  “Sahib, Parses namifami?” (Do you understand Persian?) “Kam Kam” (a little), I reply.  “Sowari pool f pool koob; rupee-rupee Jcoob?” “O, O, pool koob; rupee koob; sowari neis, sowari khylie