knowledges
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
and accoutrements they are wearing, judging from outward appearances. Not
only do their faces bear the stamp of both fearlessness and intelligence,
but some of them are possessed of the distinctively combative physiognomy
of the born pugilist. The captain of the Governor's guard has a
particularly plucky and aggressive expression; he is a man whose face
will always remain pictured on my memory. The interesting expression this
officer habitually wears is that of a prize-ring champion, with a
determined bull-dog phiz, watching eagerly to pounce on some imaginary
antagonist. Seeing that his attention is keenly centred upon me the whole
time I am sitting by the side of his chief, he becomes an object of more
than passing interest. He watches me with the keen earnestness of a
bull-dog expectantly awaiting the order to attack.

Mahmoud Yusuph Khan now attempts to explain at length sundry reasons why
it is necessary to place me, for the time being, under guard. He seems
very anxious to convey this unpleasant piece of information in the
flowery langue diplomatique of the Orient, or in other words, to coat the
bitter pill of my detention with a