An infidel army is in occupation of the country, and under the outward cloak of sudden submission is hidden deep hatred of the intruders on account of race and religion. In every village and hamlet the men listen eagerly to the preaching of the _moollahs_, who stir up their passions by lying stories of the coming time when their religion will be insulted and their _zenanas_ violated by the Kafirs. The appeal is made first to the two objects most precious in the eyes of an Afghan or of any other Mahomedan—his faith and his women. When passions have been deeply enough stirred, the _moollah_ warms to his work. A Koran, wrapped and rewrapped in silks, and carefully protected from defiling influences, is drawn from the priest’s breast, and every passage imposing upon true Mahomedans the duty of destroying all unbelievers is quoted with vehement eloquence. The _moollah_ is to these ignorant peasants the link between this world and the next; in him they place all trust; and as they listen to his fierce harangues, they are ready to do all that he requires of them. He is vested with mysterious attributes, rising occasionally to miracle-working; and with quiet assurance he promises that, if they attack the infidels “in the proper spirit and in full faith,” bullets shall turn harmlessly aside, bayonets shall not pierce them, and their poshteens thrown over the cannon’s mouth shall check shot and shell. The priesthood in all ages have traded upon the credulity of the people, and have abused their power without qualms of conscience to obtain their ends. Is it any more wonderful that an Afghan tribesman, shut out from the wonders of the outer world, should believe the clap-trap of his priest, than that highly-cultured scholars in the full glare of civilization should accept the dogmas of Papal Infallibility, or a crowd of devotees watch with awe-stricken faces the liquefaction, periodically, of the blood of a saint dead and gone ages ago? Yet such things have been in modern Europe, and the world has forgotten to smile. The _moollah_ is merely a clever trickster in his own sphere, though, like many other priests, he comes often to believe in his own supernatural powers, and then sinks to the level of his followers. And the ghazi is the creature of the _moollah_. The latter’s eloquence is listened to by some more than usually susceptible villager, whose enthusiasm is aroused to fever heat by a glowing story of a ghazi, who went into the infidel camp, cut down two or three Kafirs, and died the death of a martyr, his soul going straight to the laps of the _houris_, and his name living for ever among his kindred. Shall he not emulate such a glorious example, so that his children and his children’s children may hand down his name to all generations as a Ghazi Allah-din—a “Champion of the Faith?” The _moollah’s_ preaching has had its effect, and a ghazi has been called into being. If a great _jehad_ is being preached, that man will always be in the forefront of the battle, and will probably carry the standard of his clan, blessed by the _moollah_ who has aroused the tribesmen. The fiery cross, which was sped from end to end of the Scottish Highlands in the old days, when the call to arms was made, was no more powerful than is the Koran now, carried from village to village by the _moollah_ of Afghanistan. But a few weeks ago the arch-_moollah_, Mushk-i-Alam, sent out his message from Charkh, and how well it was responded to we are living witnesses. With ghazis in their midst to lead the timorous, and _moollahs_ always at hand to fan their fanaticism, Mahomed Jan’s rabble did wonders. How the ghazis acquitted themselves our men well know—many poor fellows to their cost.