My chum began making a signal to me, asking if I could spare any matches, so I forgot about Jaffa until, going back to the cabin, I came across him rigged out as a coast Persian or Baluchi—I didn’t know anything of the different tribes, and I don’t now—a regular low-caste, unkempt, miserable creature, dirtier than the dirtiest. The only thing remaining of the immaculate Jaffa was his dignified smile. "You send me shore, sir, when dark comes. I go Bungi; find out things; come back to-morrow night—same time." Mr. Scarlett told me that no self-respecting Afghan would waste a cartridge or blunt a knife on him in that rig, and that he would run very little risk; so, after sunset, and before the moon rose, I took him ashore myself in the dinghy, feeling rather ashamed to let him disappear behind the sand-hills alone, and promising to be there for him the next night. At sunrise next morning, just as we were preparing to go to sea for the day, he was seen strolling calmly over the sand-hills, not even deigning to wave his arms to attract attention. One thing was certain: he could not be in any danger. I stopped heaving in the cable, lowered the dinghy, and pulled ashore myself, jolly glad to get some exercise. "What’s the news?" I called out, as the dinghy took the ground. "Bungi all gone—houses burnt—men and old women lying all round—killed—no one else there—no young women—no children—only dogs and some goats—no Baluchis—no camels—no Afghans—all nothing." "What’s the meaning of that?" I asked in horror and astonishment. He shrugged his shoulders. "Afghan take revenge—lose many fighting men—cannot have rifles so take young women and children—take them to mountains—come and see." I was only too keen to go, and followed him over those same sand-hills from behind which the Afghans had fired at Popple Opstein that horrid Sunday morning. We walked nearly a mile across the sandy wastes—very hot they were to my bare feet—and as we neared the clumps of palm trees which showed where Bungi had stood I saw why they had changed their colour—nearly all had been scorched by the heat from the burning thatched roofs. Their big leaves, red and yellow and black, hung low, mournfully. The whole village was destroyed and the scene was too horrible to describe, but I saw enough to know that Jaffa was right. Some half-jackal half-wolf dogs went yelping away when we disturbed them; nothing else lived. The cruel Afghans had not even been satisfied with this. It was plain that they had driven their herd of camels up and down the patches of cultivated ground until not a trace of them existed. Jaffa explained this, and pointed out the innumerable hoof-marks. The one well was heaped with dead bodies. He said, in his quaint way, that that was a proof that "the Afghans had been very angry"! Then he took me out of the village and showed me the broad track of camel marks leading across the ford towards the mountains.