"Old Tre," as the soldiers named him, was the second man through the Cabul gate, after Colonel Peat had blown it up, by three hundred pounds of gunpowder.

The conversation of those with whom Denzil now found himself, will best explain the state of affairs in Cabul, and the new phase of society in which Destiny had cast him.

CHAPTER II.

IN THE AFGHAN FORT.

"So, Polwhele, I find by the Order Book, that you are detailed for the party against the plundering Ghazeeas?" said Waller.

"Yes; I shall have the pleasure of scouring all the Siah Sung after these wretched fanatics to-morrow.” "What force goes with you?"

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Thirty rank and file of ours, with Sergeant Treherne."

"Son of old Mike, the miner, at Porthellick?" "Yes; and forty of the thirty-seventh Native Infantry under Burgoyne."

"But I believe you are to tiff. with us at the Trecarrels in the afternoon," observed Denzil. "The General's Chuprassey, a half-naked fellow with a brass badge, brought Waller and me pink notes of invitation, and I saw there was one for you."

"I shall be duly there if a ball from a juzail, or a slash from an Afghan knife don't put

me on the sick list, or give you a chance of a lieutenancy," replied Polwhele, twirling his thick black moustache.

"It is wretched work we are condemned to, at times, here."

"Yes," rejoined Polwhele," and I fear that my little affair with the Ghazeeas is but the forerunner of some greater disturbance."

"However, to-morrow or the day after, the Envoy is to have a solemn conference with the ferocious Ackbar Khan."

"I don't think much will come of that," continued Polwhele. "It is to the memories of Plassey, Assaye, and a hundred glorious battles, rather than to our present numerical force, that we Britons owe our prestige in the East; but here in Cabul, beyond the Indus, it has not yet been felt, thanks to parsimony and utter mismanagement, civil and military."

"Don't take to grumbling, Jack, but pass the brandy bottle, old fellow. I hope we shall keep Shah Sujah on his throne despite Ackbar Khan and all the rebellious rabble in Afghanistan. What was up in your quarter yesterday? You were on guard near the old tomb and temple westward of the Cantonments."

"Up-how ?"

"I heard a sound of musketry near it."

"One discharge?"

Yes."

"Oh-you remember that odd-looking fellow who appeared at the band-stand and cut such strange capers when the musicians of the 37th were playing an air from Rossini. Well, he proved to be a Thug, and all the implements of Thugee-the holy pickaxe, the handkerchief and cord for strangulation, were found upon him."

"Not in his clothes," said Denzil, "for he had none, so the orderlies switched him away from the vicinity of the Trecarrels' carriage."

"I saw those wags of girls in fits of laughter at him. No, the implements were not found in his clothes, certainly, but in his hair, which hung below his waist, plaited like ropes. Many murders--he had strangled Christians and Hindoos with perfect impartiality—were fully proved against him by the Provost-Marshal, so he was shot, off-hand, to save all further trouble."

"So those Thugs are a sect?" said Denzil.

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Yes; and a vast community of secret assassins, too. As for sects, you will find as many here as in England, but calling themselves by different names, Mahommedans, Soonies, Ismaelites, Parsees, Hindoos, Bheels, Khonds, and worshippers of Mumbo Jumbo, et cetera, all hating each other most cordially; and by Jove, amid them, we may say as the

knight of La Mancha said to his squire, 'Here, brother Sancho, we can put our hands up to the elbows in what are called adventures.'

"Who are to be at the Trecarrels' to-morrow?" asked Waller, manipulating a fresh cigar.

"Ask Devereaux," replied Polwhele, sending some spiral circles towards him, and laughing the while.

"Why me?" asked Denzil, with a little annoyance of tone.

"How amusingly pink you become, my boy, whenever their names are mentioned," said Polwhele; "doubtless you will be doing' our old Cornwall all over again with Rose, though it is evident your heart is not there."

"Where, then ?"

"In Cabul, and nearer Kohistan than the Well of St. Keyne," replied Polwhele, who, as his name imports, was a Cornishman; and he added, laughingly, "What says Southey?—

But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then!

I hastened as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;

But i'faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church.

Ah, well do I remember that old spring so famed for its virtues, arched over by old masonry, above