Ten days later a native correspondent, giving me the news of the day from Peshawar, wound up his letter with:  “There has been much laughter here on account of a certain mad priest who is going in his estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara.  He passed through Peshawar and associated himself to the Second Summer caravan that goes to Kabul.  The merchants are pleased because through superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring good fortune.”

The two, then, were beyond the Border.  I would have prayed for them, but that night a real King died in Europe, and demanded an obituary notice.

The wheel of the world swings through the same phases again and again.  Summer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed again.  The daily paper continued and I with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hot night, a night issue, and a strained waiting for something to be telegraphed from the other side of the world, exactly as had happened before.  A few great men had died in the past two years, the machines worked with more clatter, and some of the trees in the office garden were a few feet taller.  But that was all the difference.

I passed over to the press-room, and went through just such a scene as I have already described.  The nervous tension was stronger than it had been two years before, and I felt the heat more acutely.  At three o’clock I cried, “Print off,” and turned to go, when there crept to my chair what was left of a man.  He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk between his shoulders, and he moved his feet one over the other like a bear.  I could hardly see whether he walked or crawled—­this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by name, crying that he was come back.  “Can you give me a drink?” he whimpered.  “For the Lord’s sake, give me a drink!”

I went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp.

“Don’t you know me?” he gasped, dropping into a chair, and he turned his drawn face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, to the light.

I looked at him intently.  Once before had I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I could not tell where.

“I don’t know you,” I said, handing him the whisky.  “What can I do for you?”

He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the suffocating heat.

“I’ve come back,” he repeated; “and I was the King of Kafiristan—­me and Dravot—­crowned Kings we was!  In this office we settled it—­you setting there and giving us the books.  I am Peachey,—­Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan,—­and you’ve been setting here ever since—­O Lord!”

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feelings accordingly.

“It’s true,” said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet, which were wrapped in rags—­“true as gospel.  Kings we were, with crowns upon our heads—­me and Dravot—­poor Dan—­oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take advice, not though I begged of him!”