With the taller and younger of the two we are already acquainted. The other was lean and wrinkled, with fierce eyes staring restlessly out from beneath shaggy brows. He had also a trick of clenching and unclenching his claw-like fingers as though gripping something, and this, together with his bony, hawk-like countenance and rolling eyes, gave him an indescribably cruel, not to say demoniacal, aspect. "Peace to the chief of the Gularzai," began this man, in a nasal grating snuffle. "Peace to him whom the Feringhi hath created a Nawab, for men say he loves peace." "And on you peace, who have beheld the tomb of the Prophet," returned Mushim Khan, in deep tones, for he was not pleased to behold this stranger, this interfering _mullah_, who stirred up strife whichever way he went, and was, in fact, engaged in preaching _jihad_ throughout the mountain tribes. The _mullah_, Hadji Haroun, was possessed of a very evil gift of eloquence, evil because invariably turned towards the stirring up of strife, and the sowing of plot and intrigue. For long he spoke, unfolding his plan, the design of which was to involve the Gularzai in common with other of the mountain tribes in an aggressive war with the Indian Government. An insignificant military expedition was then on foot against an insignificant unit of these, and here was a grand opportunity to assert themselves, and enjoy some sport in the shape of the slaughter of infidels, which would be pleasing to Allah at the same time--and the seizing of considerable loot, which would be pleasing to themselves. The opportunity was here. The Feringhi were unsuspicious that any hostility could be in existence against them, for had not the _Sirkar_ just created Mushim Khan a Nawab. The town of Mazaran simply lay in the hand of the Gularzai, and could be taken without a blow, captured by a clever surprise. What tribe or combination of tribes had ever prevailed in the end when pitted against the _Sirkar_? No--not in the end, but which of them was any the worse? Soldiers were sent. There was a fight or two, and peace was made. Then things were just as they had been before. The Gularzai would soon become as women, and forget what battle was, if they sat still much longer. To all of this the chief listened gravely. He distrusted the speaker, and wholly disapproved of the plan, for he had already been sounded on the matter, and that not once. Murad Afzul spat from time to time, nodding his evil head in approval as he gloated in anticipation over the delights in store--of the bazaar in Mazaran running with blood, and the camel loads of choice loot which should find their way to his mountain retreat. Oh, there were merry times ahead.