The Hindustani over whom I had no authority was a qualified man, who had been hospital assistant in the British Army, but who, accused of murdering his superior officer, an Englishman, had escaped into Afghanistan. The Amîr found him a beggar by the wayside and took him into his service, appointing him to attend to the slaves of the harem. He was at the time of which I am writing, in Kabul. The Hakims who were excepted were two old men who had attended the Amîr’s father. One, the Mirza Abdul Wahid, was an interesting old man, with wrinkled face of a Roman type. I read of him in a Russian book that Captain Griesbach lent me. For a Hakim he was an intelligent man, and I had a respect and a liking for the courtly old fellow. He died while I was in Turkestan, and I went to see him shortly before his death. With a courtesy that pained me he rose from his sickbed and ordered tea and sweetmeats to be brought. The other Hakim, Abdul Rashid, was a fat old fool, pompous and ignorant, with many words. He came to see me--but I will relate that presently. The chair he sat on never recovered. It was rickety ever afterwards. [Sidenote: Hindustani Intrigue.] I knew now what my powers were. The Hindustanis did not openly rebel again, but they hatched a plot which, had they been more careful, might have led to unpleasant results. First, as I afterwards heard, one of them, the one whom I had made compounder, appealed to the Amîr for protection. I was his enemy, he said. _His_ enemy! But the Amîr waited and watched. It _might_ be true, India is a conquered country. His Highness appeared to take but little notice of me. He was courteous as always, and allowed me to be seated in his presence; but he spoke very little to me. The Hindustani, however, marred his own plot, for, not content with opposing me, he needs must quarrel with his countrymen instead of standing by them. He made a false accusation against the “dresser,” who, on his part, made a countermove. They were arrested and brought before the Amîr, each swearing a contradiction to the other. They were both put to the torture--the “wedge and post”--and the compounder, screaming with fright, gave in at once and confessed. He was dismissed the service. He knelt, imploring pardon and permission to stay; but the Amîr said, “I send you away for your own good. Twice you were taken in adultery, and, as a foreigner, I spared you. Now you falsely accuse and endeavour to ruin your own countryman. Go, before I kill you.” I think I have not described the “wedge and post.” It is a simple thing. There is an upright post in the earth. The criminal is seated on the ground and his feet lashed to the post; wedges are inserted between the sole of the foot and the post, and are hammered home. It is a painful process, they say, but a dogged Afghan will sit till the bones of both feet are crushed, before he will utter a sound.