sandstone hid the
moon, but here and there there was a gleam of eyeballs in the dark--now
man's, now horse's--and a sheen that was the hint of steel held
vertical. No human being could have guessed the length of the gorge
nor the number of the men who waited in it, for the restless chargers
stamped in inch-deep sand that deadened sound without seeming to lessen
its quantity.

"Salaam, bahadur!"

It was Alwa, saluting with drawn sabre, reining back a pedigreed mare to
get all the spectacular emotion out of the encounter that he could.

"Here are fifteen hundred eight and fifty, sahib--all Rangars--true
believers--all true men--all pledged to see thee unsinged through the
flames of hell! Do them the honor of a quick inspection, sahib!"

"Certainly!" smiled Cunningham.

"I have told them, sahib, that their homes, their women, their
possessions, and their honor are all guaranteed them. Also pay. They
make no other terms."

"I guarantee them all of that," said Cunningham, loud enough for at
least the nearest ranks to hear.

"On thine own honor, sahib?"

"On my word of honor!"

"The promise is enough! Will you inspect them, sahib?"

"I'll take their salute first," said Cunningham.

"Pardon, bahadur!"

Alwa filled his lungs and faced the unseen lines.

"Rangars!" he roared. "Your leader! To Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur--son of
Pukka-Cunnigan whom we all knew--general--salute--present--sabres!"

There was sudden movement--the ring of whipped-out metal--a bird's
wing-beat--as fifteen hundred hilts rose all together to as many
lips--and a sharp intake of breath all down the line.

It wasn't bad. Not bad at all, thought Cunningham. It was not done
as regulars would have worked it. There was the little matter of the
lances, that he could make out dimly here and there, and he could detect
even in that gloom that half of the men had been caught wondering how
to salute with lance and sabre both. But that was not their fault;
the effort--the respect behind the effort--the desire to act
altogether--were all there and striving. He drew his own mare back a
little, and returned their salute with full military dignity.

"Reeeecee--turn--sabres!" ordered Alwa, and that movement was
accomplished better.

He rode once, slowly, down the long front rank, letting each man look
him over--then back again along the rear rank, risking a kick or two,
for there was little room between them and the cliff. He was not choking
now. The sol