emember the joy he had given her that last Christmas--the very last....

On the battlefield, if there had been nerve-shattering moments, these
had their counterpart in moments when the spirit of his Rajput ancestors
lived again in him, when he knew neither shrinking nor horror nor pity:
and in moments of pure pleasure, during some quiet interlude, when larks
rained music out of the blue; when he found himself alone with the eerie
wonder of dawn over the scarred and riven fields of death; or when he
discovered his Oriental genius for scout work that had rapidly earned
him distinction and sated his love of adventure to the full.

And always, unfailingly he had obeyed his mother's parting injunction.
As a British officer, he had fought for the Empire. As Roy Sinclair--son
of Lilamani--he had fought for the sanctities of Home and
Beauty--intrinsic beauty of mind and body and soul--against hideousness
and licence and the unclean spirit that could defile the very
sanctuaries of God.

And always, when he went into battle, he remembered Chitor. Mentally, he
put on the saffron robe, insignia of 'no surrender.' To be taken
prisoner was the one fate he could not bring himself to contemplate: yet
that very fate had befallen him and Lance, in Mesopotamia--the sequel of
a daring and successful raid.

Returning, in the teeth of unexpected difficulties, they had found
themselves ambushed, with their handful of men--outnumbered, no loophole
for escape.

For three months, that seemed more like years, they had lost all sense
of personal liberty--the oxygen of the soul. They had endured misery,
semi-starvation, and occasionally other things, such as a man cannot
bring himself to speak about or consciously recall: not least, the awful
sense of being powerless--and hated. From the beginning, they had kept
their minds occupied with ingenious plans for escape, that, at times,
seemed like base desertion of their men, whom they could neither help
nor save. But when--as by a miracle--the coveted chance came, no power
on earth could have stayed them....

It had been a breathless affair, demanding all they possessed of bodily
fleetness and suppleness, of cool, yet reckless, courage. And it had
been crowned with success; the good news wired home to mothers who
waited and prayed. But Roy's nerves had suffered more severely than
Desmond's. A sharp attack of fever had completed his prostration. And it
was then, in the moment of his passing weakne