This is the story as told by the Ressaldar, who can scarcely be romancing; but no word of the warning is given by Cavagnari in his letters to the Viceroy, all of which are full of sanguine hope even as late as August 30th. His last message was sent on September 2nd, and concluded with the words “All well,”—and this within twelve hours of the attack upon the Residency. He trusted altogether to Yakub Khan—for what could an escort of seventy-five men avail against an army?—and almost his last written words were: “Notwithstanding all people say against him, I personally believe Yakub Khan will turn out to be a very good ally, and that we shall be able to keep him to his engagements.” This blind trust in the Amir was soon to be rudely broken down, for Yakub was found wanting even in willingness to save the lives entrusted to his care. The story of the outbreak in the Bala Hissar, and the massacre of the Envoy and his followers, is written at length in the Bluebooks. The tale is too well known to bear reproduction: the heroic struggle against overwhelming odds has, perhaps, rarely been equalled, for there were only four British officers and a handful of native soldiers to meet an army. Yakub Khan sat in his palace, vacillating and sullen, with the noise of the fight ringing in his ears, and the roar of the soldiery and the fanatical populace surging into his council-chamber: but he made no sign. There were councillors who urged prompt chastisement of the mutinous sepoys: there were regiments at Bala Hissar which _might_ have loyally obeyed orders; but the man who had pledged himself to preserve our Envoy only took the cunning precaution of sending out Daoud Shah, his commander-in-chief, to “remonstrate” with the armed rabble. It was like remonstrating with a tiger when the hunter lies at his mercy: like giving the word “halt” to the incoming tide: Daoud Shah was thrust back by the first men he met, but they used their bayonets tenderly, and his wounds were slight. And when it was all over, when the excited crowd roared through the Bazaar, with Cavagnari’s head held on high, there seems to have come upon Yakub that fear of vengeance which he had hitherto thrust aside. Forty years before the body of another Envoy had been hung on the butcher’s hooks in that same Bazaar; treachery had scored a success which promised to be lasting; but Pollock had come with a victorious army from Peshawur, while Nott fought his way from the south, and the Char Chowk was soon a heap of ruins. How soon would the vengeance of an outraged nation again fall upon Cabul?