The British officers were at dinner in their mess tent, when the havildar of the guard came running up to make his report, and brought as witness the erring Gurkha.  The Colonel of the Corps at this time was Colonel F.H.  Jenkins, a man who had learnt much from Lumsden, and had caught in many ways the genius for dealing with wild warriors.  “How many men of that man’s tribe are there in the regiment?” sternly demanded Jenkins.  After reference to the company, it was found that there were seventeen of them all told.  “Parade them all here,” said the Colonel; and they were duly summoned, and paraded in line.  “Now take off every scrap of uniform or equipment that belongs to the Sirkar.”  Each man did as he was bid, and placed the little pile in front of him, on the ground.  “You can now go, and don’t let me see your faces again till you bring back those two rifles.”

The Colonel perhaps hoped that they might overtake the fugitive, overpower and secure him before he had gone far; but if so he was disappointed, for as day followed day, and week succeeded week, no news came of pursued or pursuers.  The matter had been forgotten; the vacancies had long since been filled; indeed, two whole years had passed, when one day there walked into Mardan Cantonment a ragged, rough-bearded, hard-bitten gang of seventeen men, carrying two rifles.  It was the lost legion!

Of those two years’ toil and struggle, wounds received and given, a stark unburied corpse here and there on the mountain-side, days in ambush and bitter nights of silent anxious watch, they spoke but little.  But their faces beamed with honest pride as their spokesmen simply said:  “The Sahib told us never to show our faces again until we found the rifles, and here they are.  Now, by your Honour’s kindness, we will again enlist and serve the Queen.”

* * * * *

On another occasion, during the Afghan War, it was a matter of considerable importance to ascertain the temper of an important tribe, whose position and territory threatened the left flank of the lines of communication not far short of Jellalabad.  For this difficult and dangerous duty Duffadar Faiz Talab of the Guides offered his services, well knowing the great risks he was likely to incur, though, as the event proved, he materially underrated them.

Dressed as an ordinary Pathan, with great flowing white garments, a slatey blue puggery, and with a dagger or two stuck in his cummerband, he sallied forth one dark night, and laid up not far from camp.  This precaution was taken so that not one of the hundreds of pairs of sharp eyes in our own camp should see him depart.

Next day he strolled on leisurely, and in the course of the afternoon arrived at the chief village of the tribe in question.  In every Afghan village there is a rest-house, or serai, for strangers, and thither as a rule towards evening the village gossips also find their way; the hospitable hookah is passed from mouth to mouth, and in grave Oriental fashion they set about picking each other’s gossip-pockets.  “And you, brave stranger, who are you?” asked a grey-bearded, sharp-eyed old man of Duffadar Faiz Talab.