was explained and he went off to find Makand
Singh, a major in the Lahore Lancers and in charge of the post.

It was a curious picture that I surveyed through the opened door of
the car. We were in the centre of the village, and at the intersection
of a crossroads was a tall cross with a life-size Christ. Underneath
the cross, in varying attitudes of dampness and curiosity, were a
dozen Indians, Mohammedans by faith. Some of them held horses which,
in spite of the rain, they had been exercising. One or two wore long
capes to the knees, with pointed hoods which fitted up over their
great turbans. Bearded men with straight, sensitive noses and oval
faces, even the absurdity of the cape and pointed hood failed to
lessen their dignity. They were tall, erect, soldierly looking, and
they gazed at me with the bland gravity of the East.

Makand Singh came hastily forward, a splendid figure of a man, six
foot two or thereabout, and appearing even taller by reason of his
turban. He spoke excellent English.

"It is very muddy for a lady to alight," he said, and instructed one
of the men to bring bags of sacking, which were laid in the road.

"You are seeing us under very unfavourable conditions," he said as he
helped me to alight. "But there is a fire if you are cold."

I was cold. So Makand Singh led the way to his living quarters. To go
to them it was necessary to pass through a long shed, which was now a
stable for perhaps a dozen horses. At a word of command the Indian
grooms threw themselves against the horses' heads and pushed them
back. By stepping over the ground pegs to which they were tethered I
got through the shed somehow and into a small yard.

Makand Singh turned to the right, and, throwing open the low door of a
peasant's house, stood aside to allow me to enter. "It is not very
comfortable," he explained, "but it is the best we have."

He was so tall that he was obliged to stoop as he entered the doorway.
Within was an ordinary peasant's kitchen, but cleaner than the
average. In spite of the weather the floor boards were freshly
scrubbed. The hearth was swept, and by the stove lay a sleek
tortoise-shell cat. There was a wooden dresser, a chimney shelf with
rows of plates standing on it, and in a doorway just beyond an elderly
peasant woman watching us curiously.

"Perhaps," said Makand Singh, "you will have coffee?"

I was glad to accept, and the young officer, who had followed,
accepted also. We sat down