. I forgot the pain in my arm as I passed it through the
sleeve of the loose tunic, and buttoned it across my breast, which
seemed to swell as I drew myself up, feeling as if, in spite of the
Eastern cut of my uniform, I was an English officer once more.

I had turned to the second man, who was holding my gauntlet gloves and
helmet, when Salaman produced something I had not before seen, and I
flushed a little more with pleasure, for it was a magnificent
cartouch-box and cross-belt, which I felt must have belonged to the
rajah; and while I was hesitating about passing the belt over my head,
Salaman forestalled me, and then drew back as if to admire me. Then,
looking at me with a peculiar smile, he passed his hands behind a
purdah, and produced the gorgeously jewelled tulwar and sheath which the
rajah had offered me before.

I shrank from it, for it seemed like a bond to link me to the rajah's
service, but Salaman fastened the magnificent belt, and, for the life of
me, I could not refrain from drawing the flashing blade from its sheath,
and holding it quivering in my trembling hand, from which it sent a
thrill right to my heart.

"If it is a bond between us forced upon me," I thought, "this can cut us
apart;" and at this I thrust it back into its sheath, allowed Salaman to
alter the buckle a little, and then took the helmet and gloves, putting
both on, and involuntarily turning to see if there was a looking-glass.

Vanity? Well, perhaps so; but what lad of my years would not have done
the same?

But there was no glass. I had to be contented by seeing myself in
imagination with my attendants' eyes as they drew back and gazed at me
as proudly as if my appearance was entirely their work.

"Ah!" exclaimed Salaman. "Now my lord looks indeed my lord. Who could
call him sahib when he is like that?"

I winced at the man's flattery, and yet it was hardly that, and I
laughed to myself as I felt that it was the clothes they were admiring
and not the wearer.

"If the holy man could see my lord now," said Salaman, in a whisper,
lest his words should be heard in the next tent, "he would not dare to
curse again."

These words made me wince once more; and in imagination I saw poor Dost
in his ragged fakir's garb staring at me wildly in disappointment
because I was going away. Worse still, that busy imagination called up
the face of Brace, pointing scornfully at my gay unspecked attire, and
asking me whether it would not