t it without a word.

For a long moment Rajinder Singh gazed upon the miracle before him in
silent wonder. To the unsophisticated native--and there are happily
many left in India--a photograph remains an abiding miracle; a fact to
be accepted and reverenced without explanation, like the
inconsistencies of the gods.

"In very truth, it is the Captain Sahib himself!" he muttered with the
air of one who makes an amazing discovery. Then, grasping his
possession in both hands, he held it out at arm's length, examining
every detail with loving care; glancing from the counterfeit to the
original as if to satisfy himself that the artist had omitted nothing;
for Desmond was wearing the undress uniform of the picture.

"_Bahut, bahut salaam_,[22] Sahib!" he broke out in a tremulous
fervour of gratitude. "It is your Honour's self, as I said, lacking
only speech. Feature for feature--cord for cord. All things are
faithfully set down. Behold, even these marks upon the scabbard,--the
very scar upon your Honour's hand! Now, indeed, hath God favoured me
beyond deserving; for my Captain Sahib abideth under this my roof
until I die."

[22] Many, many thanks.

Rising unsteadily, in defiance of Desmond's mute protest, he removed
the cherished looking-glass, hung the photo in its place, and, drawing
himself up to his full six-feet-two of height, gravely saluted it.

"_Salaam, hamara_,[23] Captain Sahib Bahadur!"

[23] Salaam, my Captain Sahib.

Then he turned to find Desmond, who had risen also, watching him
intently, his full heart in his eyes.

"I thought it would give you pleasure," he said, in a tone of
restrained feeling, "but I had no knowledge that it would please you
as much as that. I am very glad I thought of it. But now," he added
more briskly, "enough of talk. There waiteth more work to be done than
a man can accomplish before dark. Get you back to bed, Ressaldar
Sahib, and stay there until I order otherwise."

Once outside, he sprang to the saddle, and set off at a canter through
the withering, stupefying sunlight towards Captain Olliver's
bungalow.

CHAPTER XI.

YOU DON'T KNOW DESMOND.

"Suffer with men, and like a man be strong."--MYERS.

Frank Olliver, looking remarkably fresh and cool in a holland gown of
severe simplicity, greeted him from the verandah with a flour-covered
hand. At the sound of hoofs, her ready brain had sprung to the right
conclusion, and she hurried out to save him the nece