AMANULLAH

stand why his advice to the two opposing armies, the
one royal and the other violently revolutionary, should
have spared the property and the lives of hated English-
men and foreigners.

Amanullah hourly counted the number of men remain-
ing faithful to him. They were growing less in the col-
lapsing Palace. The women were in the basement, on
their knees in prayer, appealing to Allah to save them
from the mob that howled at the gates and directed
frequent rifle fire at every window and loophole.

Heavy shot rained into the Palace. The compound
was a churned-up shambles. The great rooms, filled
with the wreckage of furniture, silks, and brocades
bought during the London visit, were strewn with the
dead and dying. One room gaped open to the dark sky*
Every moment there came the crash of falling masonry.

But through the chaos there stalked Amanullah, a
smoking rifle in his hands. He was sweating and white-
faced. His clothes were torn, and the chalk of the
crumbling walls was over him. He was unhurt by the
bullets, but it could be seen that he had had some
narrow escapes.

But his eyes flashed still, even in the hour when he
knew he was beaten. He had seen treachery in his own
house. He had shot down four men whom he had seen
leaving for the shelter of the crowd outside. He knew
he was finished.

Some few of his last faithful followers had already
been captured by the rebels. From the shattered win-
dow he could see the brilliant lights of the execution
place, whither they were dragged after being shot. He
knew that, within a few hours at the most, his probable
fate would be there, in the hands of men whose blood-
lust was up.

There were many children in the basement with the

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