Agar Halfi the mystic

Hugo Alexis Brentwood gave his assent to Agar Halfi, his right-hand man, to pitch their little camp by the side of the stream at the foot of the mountain. Just for one moment, the Hindoo looked at his master with half-closed eyes; his consent had been merely a mechanical inclination of the head, and Agar Halfi was quite sure that the Sahib was not listening.

Still, it was sufficient; such matters were always left in his hands, and really it was more a matter of form than anything else that he had asked. So without more ado he swiftly gave his orders to the half-dozen servants and carriers, and then busied himself in superintending the preparations for the evening meal. That, to his mind, was an important thing, for no man could work unless he were properly fed.

Meanwhile the leader of this small party leaned thoughtfully on his rifle and continued to gaze absently toward the western horizon, as though fascinated by the vivid sunset. He was in reality reviewing the past eight years of his life, spent in rough travel, and contemplating with some satisfaction the knowledge and experience which he had acquired thereby.

When he left England, those who knew him best—they were not many—regarded him as a man who, having given great promise as a psychologist, had discarded most Western theories, and side-tracked into occultism; which of course, from a Western scientific point of view, was mere superstition. His colleagues had put it down to the Eastern blood in him, concluding that his environment had not been strong enough to overcome his hereditary traits of mysticism.

But their point of view did not trouble him greatly. He had drawn his own conclusions, and having plenty of means at his disposal, had decided to make research, and gather facts for himself. His measure of success was more than he had hoped for; some of his theories he had proved up to the hilt; others had not been so satisfactory, but in any case, he now knew that psychology as understood by Western thought was a mere drop in the ocean, such a puny feeble creature, that it was a wonder it had any life at all.

Thus it was that at present he happened to be situated in wild Afghanistan, a country in which he had experienced many weird and strange things, not always to be found even by those who seek them.

At the present time he was not many days’ journey from the Persian border; and when at Herat, he had heard a lot of whispered talk concerning a cave in the mountains about forty miles further on. From what could be gathered, the place was stigmatised as haunted; but the people spoke of it as if half afraid to do so, and the information he could gather was meagre.

It appeared that at irregular intervals the lifeless bodies of people had been found there. This in itself was sufficient to give the place an evil repute, but it could hardly have accounted for the firmly implanted idea that the cave was under the influence of the Evil One. All the bodies had been mutilated in the same manner. In each case the throat had been torn as though with a sharp instrument; but the wound was a jagged one, such as no known weapon could inflict! No doubt it was this latter fact that caused the natives to condemn the cave as under the spell of the supernatural. At any rate, that was all he could get to know, so he had determined to go a little out of his direct course and examine the place.