You see, there was a Sikh on guard outside, who respected nothing under heaven but his orders.  He wouldn’t have known Grim in any event, being only recently from India; Grim’s uniform would have passed him in, but he and Jeremy were still arrayed as Arabs, and my civilian clothes entitled me in the sentry’s opinion to protection lest I commit the heinous sin of impertinence.  An Arab in his eyes was as an insect, and a white man, who consorted with such creatures, not a person to be taken seriously.

But our friend Narayan Singh was in the hospital, enjoying the wise veteran’s prerogative of resting on full pay after his strenuous adventures along with us at Abu Kem.  There was nothing whatever the matter with him.  He recognized Grim’s voice and emerged through the front door with a milk-white smile flashing in the midst of newly-curled black hair—­dignified, immense, and full of instant understanding.

Grim said a few words to Narayan Singh in Arabic, which so far as the sentry was concerned wasn’t a language, but Narayan Singh spoke in turn in Punjabi, and the man just out from India began to droop like Jonah’s gourd under the old soldier’s scorn.

In consequence we got a full salute with arms presented, and walked in without having to trouble anybody in authority, Narayan Singh leading with the air of an old-time butler showing royalty to their rooms.  He even ascertained in an aside, that the doctor of the day was busy operating, and broke that good news with consummate tact: 

“The sahibs’ lightest wish is law, but if they should wish to speak with the doctor sahib, it would be necessary to call him forth from the surgery, where he works behind locked doors.  Is it desired that I should summon him?”

“Operation serious?” asked Grim, and neither man smiled.  It was perfect acting.

“Very, sahib.  He removes the half of a sepoy’s liver.”

“Uh!  Couldn’t think of interrupting him.  Too bad!  Lead the way.”

But we didn’t enter the ward until Narayan Singh and an orderly had placed two screens around number nineteen cot, in the way they do when a man is dying, and had placed three chairs at the bedside contrary to the regulations printed on the wall.  Then Narayan Singh stood on guard outside the screens, but didn’t miss much of the conversation, I believe.

The man in bed was wounded badly, but not fatally, and though his eyes blazed with fever he seemed to have some of his wits about him.  He recognized Grim after staring hard at him for about a minute.

“Jimgrim!”

“Sidi bin Tagim, isn’t it?  Well, well I thought it might be you,” said Grim, speaking the northern dialect of Arabic, which differs quite a bit from that spoken around Jerusalem.

“Who are these?” asked the man in bed, speaking hoarsely as he stared first at Jeremy and then at me.

“Jmil Ras, a friend of mine,” Grim answered.