<«^t^?^<^t^t^<<^«^<^t^t<^t^ EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN He cupped his hands and called with the long low note that carries and swells as it travels. The voice fell as he called, " Oo-o-o," came the voice across the green valley. " Greetings, and do you know what they will call the son ? " The reply was pitched in the same low musical voice, " They say he is called * Peace of God.' His name is Araanullah." It is the winter of 1890. The snow lies thick on the ranges of hills. Tip above, the early sun already catches the peaks of the Hindu Rush. The hills seem to merge in the clouds. New territories are there, new continents and ethereal lands of many colours. Who can tell, in this brilliant light of blazing sun on deep snow, whether they be crag or cloud ? Amanullah. The soft consonants were borne by the breezes many times that day across the valleys of the wild land. From mouth to mouth the syllables passed, the name travelling into every hamlet and every scattered group of tumble-down huts clinging to the hard, cruel earth. " Peace of God." The word was common currency over the samovars in the cafds. It was spoken by gaunt men crouching on their heels on the little parapets, warming their hands on the tin cups containing sweet tea* Their eyes are keen and their cheekbones prominent. Their legs are long and their proud beards seem ready to menace a stranger. "Peace of God," they say again—and hitch their rifles up on their slings, stride off along the goat track. How the great hills must have laughed when they 15