escaped, dropping his weapon; or it might
be that it had been left there to scare him, as much as to say, "That
is what is waiting for you if you do not desist." As a precaution
I told him not to sleep there any more, but gave him a bed in the
house of a native Christian near where I slept myself; for it was
summer, and we were all sleeping in the open. Three nights later I
was awakened about one o'clock in the morning by the report of a gun,
and, running over instinctively to Seyyid Badshah, found the enemy
had indeed come and shot him through the stomach.

Everything possible was done for him, but the wound was mortal, and
that evening he passed away, his last words being: "O Lord Jesus,
I am Thy servant!" There were many moist eyes as we carried Seyyid
Badshah to his last resting-place in the little cemetery at Bannu. His
had been a very lovable character, and in his short Christian life
he had been the means of influencing more than one Afghan towards
Christ. One in particular was a Mullah from the Yusufzai country,
Abdullah by name; and we sometimes spoke of the "four generations,"
as in these few years Taib had been brought by the Afghan preacher
from Laghman, whose story is given in Chapter XVI.; then Taib had
been the instrument in bringing Seyyid Badshah; and through Seyyid
Badshah's influence this other Mullah believed.

Taib Khan continued in the work of the mission hospital, but fresh
trials were about to test and sift him more severely than ever. The
old friend of his boyhood, the Khani Mullah, and some relations
came down to Bannu, and while pretending at first to acquiesce in
his having become a Christian, recalled to him the memories and
associations of his boyhood. He became violently homesick. The old
village scenes, his patrimony there only waiting for him to claim,
the girl to whom he had been engaged, and whom her parents were,
they said, still keeping unmarried in hopes that Taib would recant
and claim her--all these old scenes and ideas came to him with such
irresistible force that he came to me one day and asked for a month's
leave, that he might revisit his village. I well knew the dangers
to which he would be exposed, but I sympathized with his homesick
state of mind, and knew it would be futile to expect him to stifle
it, so I gave him leave, and, warning him of the specious nature of
the suggestions and temptations which would be offered to him there,
reluctantly parted from him. At the sa