ry who, I suppose, had been
told of the service we had rendered. Said I to Gooja Singh, who sat
on my horse's rump, his own beast being disemboweled, "Who speaks
now of a poor beginning?" said I.

"I would rather see the end!" said he. But he never saw the end.
Gooja Singh was ever too impatient of beginnings, and too sure what
the end ought to be, to make certain of the middle part. I have
known men on outpost duty so far-seeing that an enemy had them at
his mercy if only he could creep close enough. And such men are
always grumblers.

Gooja Singh led the grumbling now--he who had been first to prophesy
how we should be turned into infantry. They kept us at the rear, and
took away our horses--took even our spurs, making us drill with
unaccustomed weapons. And I think that the beginning of the new
distrust of Ranjoor Singh was in resentment at his patience with the
bayonet drill. We soldiers are like women, sahib, ever resentful of
the new--aye, like women in more ways than one; for whom we have
loved best we hate most when the change comes.

Once, at least a squadron of us had loved Ranjoor Singh to the
death. He was a Sikh of Sikhs. It had been our boast that fire could
not burn his courage nor love corrupt him, and I was still of that
mind; but not so the others. They began to remember how he had
stayed behind when we left India. We had all seen him in disguise,
in conversation with that German by the Delhi Gate. We knew how busy
he had been in the bazaars while the rumors flew. And the trooper
who had stayed behind with him, who had joined us with him at the
very instant of the charge that night, died in the charge; so that
there was none to give explanation of his conduct. Ranjoor Singh
himself was a very rock for silence. Our British officers said
nothing, doubtless not suspecting the distrust; for it was a byword
that Ranjoor Singh held the honor of the squadron in his hand. Yet
of all the squadron only the officers and I now trusted him--the
Sikh officers because they imitated the British; the British because
faith is a habit with them, once pledged, and I--God knows. There
were hours when I did distrust him--black hours, best forgotten.

The war settled down into a siege of trenches, and soon we were
given a section of a trench to hold. Little by little we grew wise
at the business of tossing explosives over blind banks--we, who
would rather have been at it with the lance and saber. Yet, can a
die fall wh