EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

down over the hills, and the lights are twinkling over
the ornamental arch.

But the peak where sits my mullah is still aflame.
He will be sitting in the last rays of the sunlight, his
head on the ground in prayer to Allah. Perhaps he is
full of strange fears, born of what he has seen in the
valley below. It will be growing cold on the mountain-
top, even while the gold of the setting sun dims. Then
the light on the peak is gone, and it is night.

The King goes down from the caf£. The band packs
up and leaves the kiosk. Pierri and I walk down in the
dark.

Afghanistan's little hour of Western vanity is over.

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