e on the wall, then moved on
to another picture, the mess watching him without a word. When he came
to the mantelpiece he shook his head and seemed distressed. A piece of
plate representing a mounted hussar in full uniform caught his eye. He
pointed to it, and then to the mantelpiece with inquiry in his eyes.

'What is it--oh what is it?' said little Mildred. Then as a mother
might speak to a child, 'That is a horse. Yes, a horse.'

Very slowly came the answer in a thick, passionless guttural--'Yes,
I--have seen. But--where is _the_ horse?'

You could have heard the hearts of the mess beating as the men drew
back to give the stranger full room in his wanderings. There was no
question of calling the guard.

Again he spoke--very slowly, 'Where is _our_ horse?'

There is but one horse in the White Hussars, and his portrait hangs
outside the door of the mess-room. He is the piebald drum-horse, the
king of the regimental band, that served the regiment for
seven-and-thirty years, and in the end was shot for old age. Half the
mess tore the thing down from its place and thrust it into the man's
hands. He placed it above the mantelpiece, it clattered on the ledge
as his poor hands dropped it, and he staggered towards the bottom of
the table, falling into Mildred's chair. Then all the men spoke to one
another something after this fashion, 'The drum-horse hasn't hung over
the mantelpiece since '67.' 'How does he know?' 'Mildred, go and speak
to him again.' 'Colonel, what are you going to do?' 'Oh, dry up, and
give the poor devil a chance to pull himself together.' 'It isn't
possible anyhow. The man's a lunatic.'

Little Mildred stood at the Colonel's side talking in his ear. 'Will
you be good enough to take your seats, please, gentlemen!' he said,
and the mess dropped into the chairs. Only Dirkovitch's seat, next to
little Mildred's, was blank, and little Mildred himself had found Hira
Singh's place. The wide-eyed mess-sergeant filled the glasses in dead
silence. Once more the Colonel rose, but his hand shook, and the port
spilled on the table as he looked straight at the man in little
Mildred's chair and said hoarsely, 'Mr. Vice, the Queen.' There was a
little pause, but the man sprung to his feet and answered without
hesitation, 'The Queen, God bless her!' and as he emptied the thin
glass he snapped the shank between his fingers.

Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young woman and
there were no unclean id