AMANULLAH It vr&s a period of strain for Amanullah. He was approaching the thirties, and so far only held a rank in the Afghan Army commensurate with his rank as a prince. He knew more than any other officer about the rank and file* He knew the country better than most. He knew that he had the personality to lead, and to lead as far as death. He had brain, and he was a sea-green incorruptible. He was not smug, but he was arrogant. Justice was in his heart, and ambition was in his head. Spurred by his wife, driven again by his own mind, yet he could get no further. Afghanistan seemed to him a dead country, rotting in corruption, afraid to take a chance one way or the other. He resented the sway of diplomacy over military prowess. He cavilled at the sale of jobs which meant the control of his good fighting men. This was not the way Afghan armies went to conquer* This was never the way of valour and victory. Habibullah said nothing. Metaphorically, he never lifted his eyes from the chessboard when his son flamed and spouted before him. u Doubtless the young man wants something," he would say. " Perhaps he is dissatisfied. Give him a province." Meanwhile, the old Amir played the same game with the foreign envoys, playing off one against the other, rousing jealousies, pretending to grant his favours first to one and then the other, and never budging an inch from his unassailable position of assumed perplexity and doubt as to the future of Afghan policy in the War. He was destined to see the end of the struggle without allowing his son to unsheath the steel of his Army. The nations battled themselves into exhaustion, and news