unrecognisable. From it, a thousand wild, illogical, and fantastic
conclusions are drawn. These again are circulated as facts. So the game
goes on. But amid all this falsehood, and idle report, there often lies
important information. The bazaar stories not only indicate the state of
native opinion, but not infrequently contain the germ of truth. In
Eastern lands, news travels by strange channels, and often with
unaccountable rapidity. As July advanced the bazaar at Malakand became
full of tales of the Mad Fakir. His miracles passed from mouth to mouth,
with suitable additions.

A great day for Islam was at hand. A mighty man had arisen to lead them.
The English would be swept away. By the time of the new moon, not one
would remain. The Great Fakir had mighty armies concealed among the
mountains. When the moment came these would sally forth--horse, foot and
artillery--and destroy the infidel. It was even stated that the Mullah
had ordered that no one should go near a certain hill, lest the heavenly
hosts should be prematurely revealed. So ran the talk. But among all
these frothy fabrications there lay a solemn warning.

Though the British military and political officers were compelled to
take official notice of the reports received with reference to the
tribal gathering, and to make arrangements for the safety of their
posts, they privately scouted the idea that any serious events were
impending.

On the afternoon of the 26th July the subalterns and younger officers of
the Malakand garrison proceeded to Khar to play polo. Thither also came
Lieutenant Rattray, riding over from Chakdara fort. The game was a good
one, and the tribesmen of the neighbouring village watched it as usual
in little groups, with a keen interest. Nothing in their demeanour