“But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the people.  They were afraid of me and the Army, but they loved Dan.  He was the best of friends with the priests and the Chiefs; but any one could come across the hills with a complaint, and Dravot would hear him out fair, and call four priests together and say what was to be done.  He used to call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from Shu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum,—­it was like enough to his real name,—­and hold councils with ’em when there was any fighting to be done in small villages.  That was his Council of War, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and Madora was his Privy Council.  Between the lot of ’em they sent me, with forty men and twenty rifles, and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband country to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir’s workshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir’s Herati regiments that would have sold the very teeth out of their mouths for turquoises.

“I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governor there the pick of my baskets for hush-money, and bribed the Colonel of the regiment some more, and, between the two and the tribes-people, we got more than a hundred hand-made Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that’ll throw to six hundred yards, and forty man-loads of very bad ammunition for the rifles.  I came back with what I had, and distributed ’em among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill.  Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, but the old Army that we first made helped me, and we turned out five hundred men that could drill, and two hundred that knew how to hold arms pretty straight.  Even those cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to them.  Dravot talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up and down in the pine wood when the winter was coming on.

“‘I won’t make a Nation,’ says he.  ’I’ll make an Empire!  These men aren’t niggers; they’re English!  Look at their eyes—­look at their mouths.  Look at the way they stand up.  They sit on chairs in their own houses.  They’re the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and they’ve grown to be English.  I’ll take a census in the spring if the priests don’t get frightened.  There must be a fair two million of ’em in these hills.  The villages are full o’ little children.  Two million people—­two hundred and fifty thousand fighting men—­and all English!  They only want the rifles and a little drilling.  Two hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to cut in on Russia’s right flank when she tries for India!  Peachey, man,’ he says, chewing his beard in great hunks, ’we shall be Emperors—­Emperors of the Earth!  Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us.  I’ll treat with the Viceroy on equal terms.  I’ll ask him to send me twelve picked English—­twelve that I know of—­to help us govern a bit.  There’s Mackray, Serjeant Pensioner at Segowli—­many’s the good dinner he’s given me, and his wife a pair of trousers.  There’s Donkin, the