[4] Yes.
  [5] Without doubt.

“H’m!  A Scotch Pathan, brought up by an Australian girl in India, would be a rare bird—­and of rare possibilities naturally,” I murmured, while my mind worked quickly backward.

“My brother was unlike us in some things, Sahib.  He was fond of the sharab called ‘Whisky’ and of dogs; he drank smoke from the cheroot after the fashion of the Sahib-log and not from the hookah nor the bidi;[6] he wore boots; he struck with the clenched fist when angered; and never did he squat down upon his heels nor sit cross-legged upon the ground.  Yet he was true Pathan in many ways during his life, and he died as a Pathan should, concerning his honour (and a woman).  Yea—­and in his last fight, ere he was hanged, he killed more men with his long Khyber knife, single-handed against a mob, than ever did lone man before with cold steel in fair fight.”

  [6] Native cigarette.

Then it was so.  And the Subedar-Major was John Robin Ross-Ellison’s brother!

“He may have been foolishly kind to women, servants and dogs, and of a foolish type of honour that taketh not every possible advantage of the foe—­but he was very brave, Huzoor, a strong enemy, and when he began he made an end, and if that same honour were affronted he killed his man.  And yet he did not kill Ibrahim Mahmud the Weeper, who surely earned his death twice, and who tried to kill him in a manner most terrible to think of.  No, he did not—­but it shall be told....  And the white woman prevailed upon our father to make her man-child a Sahib and to let him go to the maktab[7] and madressah-tul-Islam[8] at Kot Ghazi, to learn the clerkly lore that gives no grip to the hand on the sword-hilt and lance-shaft nor to the thighs in the saddle, no skill to the fingers on the reins, no length of sight to the eye, no steadiness to the rifle and the lance, no understanding of the world and men and things.  But our father corrected all this, that the learning might do him no harm, for oft-times he brought him to Mekran Kot (where my mother tried to poison him), and he took him across the Black Water and to Kabul and Calcutta and showed him the world.  Also he taught him all he knew of the horse, the rifle, the sword, and the lance—­which was no small matter.  Thus, much of the time wasted at school was harmless, and what the boy lost through the folly of his mother was redeemed by the wisdom of his father.  Truly are our mothers our best friends and worst enemies.  Why, when I was but a child my mother gave me money and bade me go prove—­but I digress.  Well, thus my brother grew up not ignorant of the things a man should know if he is to be a man and not a babu, but the woman, his mother, wept sore whenever he was taken from her, and gave my father trouble and annoyance as women ever do.  And when, at last, she begged that the boy might enter the service of the Sirkar as a wielder of the pen