“Yes, sir,” the boy answered seriously.  “I was walking from Kohara up the valley, and remembering the landmarks as I went.  I had walked a long way.  I had come to the fort where my father was besieged.”

“Yes, that reminds me,” said Pollard, “you won’t feel so lonely to-morrow as you do to-day.  There is a new boy joining whose father was a great friend of your father’s.  Richard Linforth is his name.  Very likely your father has mentioned that name to you.”

Mr. Pollard switched on the light as he spoke and saw Shere All’s face flash with eagerness.

“Oh yes!” he answered, “I know.  He was killed upon the road by my uncle’s people.”

“I have put you into the next room to his.  If you will come with me I will show you.”

Mr. Pollard led the way along a passage into the boys’ quarters.

“This is your room.  There’s your bed.  Here’s your ‘burry,’” pointing to a bureau with a bookcase on the top.  He threw open the next door.  “This is Linforth’s room.  By the way, you speak English very well.”

“Yes,” said Shere Ali.  “I was taught it in Lahore first of all.  My father is very fond of the English.”

“Well, come along,” said Mr. Pollard.  “I expect my wife has come back and she shall give us some tea.  You will dine with us to-night, and we will try to make you as fond of the English as your father is.”

The next day the rest of the boys arrived, and Mr. Pollard took the occasion to speak a word or two to young Linforth.

“You are both new boys,” he said, “but you will fit into the scheme of things quickly enough.  He won’t.  He’s in a strange land, among strange people.  So just do what you can to help him.”

Dick Linforth was curious enough to see the son of the Khan of Chiltistan.  But not for anything would he have talked to him of his father who had died upon the road, or of the road itself.  These things were sacred.  He greeted his companion in quite another way.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Shere Ali,” replied the young Prince.

“That won’t do,” said Linforth, and he contemplated the boy solemnly.  “I shall call you Sherry-Face,” he said.

And “Sherry-Face” the heir to Chiltistan remained; and in due time the name followed him to College.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE DAUPHINE

The day broke tardily among the mountains of Dauphine.  At half-past three on a morning of early August light should be already stealing through the little window and the chinks into the hut upon the Meije.  But the four men who lay wrapped in blankets on the long broad shelf still slept in darkness.  And when the darkness was broken it was by the sudden spit of a match.  The tiny blue flame spluttered for a few seconds and then burned bright and yellow.  It lit up the face of a man bending over the dial of a watch and above him and about him the wooden rafters and walls came dimly into view.  The face was stout and burned by the sun to the colour of a ripe apple, and in spite of a black heavy moustache had a merry and good-humoured look.  Little gold earrings twinkled in his ears by the light of the match.  Annoyance clouded his face as he remarked the time.