'The faces of the Afghans,' says a writer, 'often develop into those of the most villainous-looking scoundrels. Shylock, Caliban, and Sycorax and his dam all have numerous representatives, though I think the first is the commonest type, on account of the decidedly Jewish cast of most Cabuli features, and the low cunning and cruelty which supplies the only animation in their otherwise stolid countenances, true indices of the mind beneath--fatalist by creed; false, murderous, and tyrannical by education. In this description,' he adds, 'I do not include the Kuzzil Bash (Persian), or Hindoo settlers, who preserve their own distinctive features, both mental and physical.' For five hours had the unequal conflict been waged, when Sir Louis Cavagnari, who was in the thick of it, was wounded in the forehead by a ball that had ricochetted from a wall near him. Close and terrible was the fire poured by the Guides with their carbines and by the few European officers into the dense masses of the foe beneath, and deadly that fire proved--the front files, if they could be termed so, melted away or fell over each other in heaps, but fresh men pushed forward from the rear and took their places, serving only to feed the harvest of death gathered at the hands of those who fought not for existence--the hope of that was quite lost now--but for vengeance. 'Allah! Allah! Allah! Deen! Deen! Deen!' were the shouts that loaded the air below, rising above the sputtering roar of the firearms. On the other side was no sound, but a yell or a groan as a man fell wounded, too often mortally. 'La Ilah illa Allah!' ('There is no God but God.') Yet devilry, cruelty, and slaughter were there supreme. 'I wish we could make a headlong rush on them and clear the square by a charge--cut our way through,' cried Colville; 'but we have not men enough, and then Sir Louis Cavagnari and all the wounded would be butchered if left behind.' 'How fast the devils fire!' exclaimed a young officer; 'my revolver barrel is quite hot already.' 'You'll soon get used to the whizz of the bullets,' replied Colville, whose face if now pale with desperation, was filled with an expression of determination too. 'Keep cool, men--aim well, and let every shot tell.' But amid that dense mob below--a literal sea of upturned and dark, revengeful faces, with glistening teeth and flashing eyes--no bullet could miss a mark; while all around were heard the crash of falling bricks, beams, and plaster, the yells of the Afghans, the shrieks of their women, and the roar of the fast gathering flames. 'Mark that fellow!' cried several officers, indicating a leader in a green loonghee, who seemed to have a charmed life--Mahmoud Shah, in fact.