Page:Rudyard Kipling's verse - Inclusive Edition 1885-1918.djvu/298

Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith,
And he was honoured of the King—the which is salt to Death;
And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains,
And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins;
And 'twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind,
The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind.

"Strike!" said the King. "King's blood art thou his
death shall be his pride!"
Then louder, that the crowd might catch: "Fear not his arms are tied!"
Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again.
"O man, thy will is done," quoth he; "A King this dog hath slain."

⁠Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold.
⁠The North and the South shall open their mouth to a Ghilzai flag unrolled,
⁠When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Herat is fly:
⁠Ye have heard the song—How long? How long? Wolves of the Abazai!

That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear,
The Governor of Kabul spoke: "My King, hast thou no
fear?
"Thou knowest thou hast heard,"—his speech died at his master's face.
And grimly said the Afghan King: "I rule the Afghan race.
"My path is mine—see thou to thine. To-night upon thy bed
"Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head."