Mahmoud Yusuph Khan repeats this to his officers, with comments of his own, and they look at one another and smile and shake their heads, evidently deeply impressed at what they consider the dare-devil recklessness of a Ferenghi in venturing alone into the streets of Furrah.  The warlike Afghans have great admiration for personal courage, and they evidently regard my arrival here without escort as a proof that I am possessed of a commendable share of that desirable quality.  As the commander-in-chief and a few grim old warriors squatting near us exchange comments on the subject of my appearance here, and my willingness to proceed alone to Kandahar, notwithstanding the known probability of being murdered, their glances of mingled amusement and admiration are agreeably convincing that I have touched a chord of sympathy in their rude, martial breasts.

Half an hour is passed in drinking tea and asking questions.  Mahmoud Yusuph Khan proves himself not wholly ignorant of English and British-Indian politics.  “General Roberts Sahib, Cabool to Kandahar?” he queries first.  The Afghans regard General Roberts’ famous march as a wonderful performance, and consequently hold that distinguished officer’s name in high repute.  He asks about Sir Peter Lumsden and Colonel Sir West Ridgeway; and speaks of the Governor-General of India.  By way of testing the extent of his knowledge, I refer to Lord Ripon as the present Governor-General of India, when he at once corrects me with, “No; Lord Dufferin Sahib.”  He speaks of London, and wants to know about Mr. Gladstone and Lord Salisbury—­which is now Prime Minister?  I explain by pantomime that the election is not decided; he acknowledges his understanding of my meaning by a nod.  He then grows inquisitive about the respective merits of the two candidates.  “Gladstone koob or Salisbury koob?” he queries.  “Gladstone koob, England, ryot, nune, gusht, kishrnish, pool-Salisbury koob, India, Afghanistan, Ameer, Russia soldier, officer,” is the reply.  To the average reader this latter reads like so much unintelligible shibboleth; but it is a fair sample of the disjointed language by which I manage to convey my meaning plainly to the Afghan chieftain.  He understands by these few disconnected nouns that I consider Gladstone to be the better statesman of the two for England’s domestic affairs, and Salisbury the better for the foreign policy of the Empire.

All this time the troops are being put through their exercises, marching about the compound in companies and drilling with their muskets.  Some are uniformed in the picturesque Anglo-Oriental regimentals of the Indian sepoy, and others in neat red jackets, peaked caps, and white trousers with red stripes.  The buttons, belts, bandoleers, and buckles are all wanderers from the ranks of the British army.  The men themselves—­many of them, at least—­might quite as readily be credited to that high standard of military prowess which characterizes the British army as the clothes