hing is better than being
blinded."

"I shall see you sometimes, sahib; for the major engaged me, this
morning, to go with him as his personal servant, as his own man is
in feeble health and, though I am now getting on in years, I am
still strong enough to travel with the regiment."

"I am delighted, indeed, to hear that, Robah. I shall be very glad
to steal away sometimes, and have a chat with you. It will be a
great pleasure to have someone I can talk to, who knows me. Of
course, the native officer in command of my company will not be
able to show me any favour, nor should I wish him to do so. It
seems like keeping one friend, while I am cut off from all others;
though I dare say I shall make some new ones among the sepoys. I
have no doubt you will be very comfortable with the major."

"Yes, sahib, I am sure that he is a kind master. I shall be able, I
hope, sometimes to give you a small quantity of whisky, to mix with
the water in your bottle."

"No, no, Robah, when the baggage is cut down there will be very
little of that taken and, however much there might be, I could not
accept any that you had taken from the major's store. I must fare
just the same as the others."

"Well, sahib, I hope that, at any rate, you will carry a small
flask of it under your uniform. You may not want it but, if you
were wounded and lying in the snow, it would be very valuable to
you for, mixed with the water in your bottle, and taken from time
to time, it would sustain you until you could be carried down to
camp."

"That is a very good idea, Robah, and I will certainly adopt it. I
will carry half a pint about with me, for emergencies such as you
describe. If I do not want it, myself, it may turn out useful to
keep up some wounded comrade. It will not add much to the load that
I shall have to carry, and which I expect I shall feel, when we
first march. As I am now, I think I could keep up with the best
marcher in the regiment but, with the weight of the clothes and
pouches, a hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition, and my rifle,
it will be a very different thing; and I shall be desperately
tired, by the time we get to the end of the day's march.

"Now it is twelve o'clock, and time to turn in, for we march at
five."

The next morning, when the sick convoy started, the white officers
came up to say goodbye to Lisle; and all expressed their regret
that he could not accompany the regiment. The butler had gone on
ahead and, as so