Captain Barlow reined in the grey on the roadside, for those that marched were close.  Now he could see, two abreast, horses that carried cavalry men.  Ten couples of the troop rode by with low-voiced exchanges of words amongst themselves.  A petty officer rode at their heels, and behind him, on a bay Arab, whose sweated skin glistened like red wine in the moonlight, came a risiladar, the commander of the troop.  A little down the road Barlow could see an undulating, swaying huge ribbon of white-and-pink bullocks, twenty-four yoke of the tall lean-flanked powerful Amrit Mahal, the breed that Hyder Ali long ago had brought on his conquering way to the land of the Mahrattas.  And beyond the ghost-like line of white creatures was some huge thing that they drew.

The commander reined his Arab to a stand beside Barlow and saluted, saying, “Salaam, Major Sahib—­you ride alone?”

Barlow said:  “My salaams, Risiladar, and I am but a captain.  I ride at night because the days are hot.  My two men have gone before me because my horse dropped a shoe which had to be replaced.  Did the Risiladar see my two servants that were mounted?”

“I met none such,” the commander answered.  “Perhaps in some village they have rested for a drink of liquor; they of the army are given to such practices when their Captain’s eye is not upon them.  I go with this”—­and he waved a gauntleted hand back toward the thing that loomed beyond the bullocks that had now come to a halt.  “It is the brass cannon, the like of which there is no other.  We go to the camp of the Amil, who commands the Sindhia troops, taking him the brass cannon that it may compel a Musselman zemindar to pay the tax that is long past due.  Why the barbarian should not pay I know not for a tax of one-fourth is not much for a foreigner, a debased follower of Mahomet, to render unto the ruler of this land that is the garden of the world.  He has shut himself and men up in his mud fort, but when this brass mother of destruction spits into his stronghold a ball or two that is not opium he will come forth or we will enter by the gate the cannon has made.”

“Then there will be bloodshed, Risiladar,” Barlow declared.

“True, Captain Sahib; but that is, after a manner, the method of collecting just dues in this land where those who till the soil now, were, but a generation or two since, men of the sword,—­they can’t forget the traditions.  In the land of the British Raj six inches of a paper, with a big seal duly affixed, would do the business.  That I know, for I have travelled far, Sahib.  As to the bloodshed, worse will be the trampling of crops, for in the district of this worshipper of Mahomet the wheat grows like wild scrub in the jungle, taller than up to the belly of my horse.  That is the whyfore of the cannon, in a way of speaking, because from a hill we can send to this man a slaying message, and leave the wheat standing to fill the bellies of those who are in his hands as a tyrant.  Sirdar Baptiste was for sending a thousand sepoys to put the fear of destruction in the debtor; but the Dewan with his eye on revenue from crops, hit upon this plan of the loud-voiced one of brass.”