“From Russia!” returned the Khan, quickly.  “But you are English, are you not?”

“Certainly I am.”

“How strong is Russia’s army?” continued the Khan, after an application to the gold snuff box, and a trumpet-blast on the yellow bandanna.

“Nominally about three millions.”

“And England?”

“About two hundred thousand, not counting the reserves.”

“Humph!” grunted the Khan.  “Tell me, do the English imagine that Abdur Raman [B] is their friend?”

“I believe so.”

“Then tell them from me,” cried the Khan, excitedly, half rising from his seat, “tell Queen Victoria from me that it is not so.  Tell her to beware of Abdur Raman.  He is her enemy.”

“Is England afraid of Russia?” continued the Khan after a long pause.

“No; the English fear no one.”

“Will England reach Kandahar before Russia takes Herat?”

“I really cannot say,” was my answer to this somewhat puzzling question.

Mir Khudadad then turned away to converse with the Wazir in a low tone.  About ten minutes elapsed, during which a long confabulation was held, in which many of the suite, including the Afghan soldiers, joined.  Prince Azim meanwhile invited me to inspect his sword and pistols.  The former, a splendid Damascus blade, and hilt encrusted with jewels, I especially admired.  Had I known the use to which it had been put that morning, I should not, perhaps, have been so enthusiastic.

Again the Khan addressed me.

“Do you know Russia well?”

“Pretty well.”

“Is it true that the Russians do not allow Mohammedans to worship in Central Asia?”

“I believe that is untrue.”

“It is a lie?”

“Most certainly it is.”

“Your own countrymen told me so.”  At this there was a roar of laughter, in which the Khan joined.

The durbar-room of Kelat reminded me of an English court of justice.  When the Khan laughed his courtiers did, and vice versa.  After an interval of more snuff-taking and whispering, the Khan drew forth and examined my watch.  Taking this for a polite hint that the interview had lasted long enough, I rose to go, but was at once thrust back into my chair by Azim.  “You are not to go,” said the Wazir.  “The Khan is much interested by you.”

“Dhuleep Singh is in Russia, is he not?” then asked the Khan.

“Yes.”

“What does Russia pay him a year?”

“I do not know.”

“More than England did?”

“I do not know.”

“You English never do know anything,” muttered the Khan, impatiently; adding, “Do you know the Czar of Russia?”

“I have seen him.”

“Is he a good man?”

“I believe him to be so.”

“Then why do his people try to kill him?”

“Some of them are Socialists.”

“Socialists!” repeated the Khan, slowly.  “What is that?”