“Aye,” said I, “a little.  Which daffadar will you take?  That will help more!” said I.

“Gooja Singh,” he answered, and I marveled.

“Sahib,” I said, “take him out of sight and bury his body!  Make an end!” I urged.  “In Flanders they shot men against a wall for far less than he has talked about!”

“Flanders is one place and this another,” he answered.  “Should I make those good men more distrustful than they are?  Should I shoot Gooja Singh unless I am afraid of him?”

I said no more because I knew he was right.  If he should shoot Gooja Singh the troopers would ascribe it to nothing else than fear.  A British officer might do it and they would say, “Behold how he scorns to shirk responsibility!” Yet of Ranjoor Singh they would have said, “He fears us, and behold the butchery begins!  Who shall be next?” Nevertheless, had I stood in his shoes, I would have shot and buried Gooja Singh to forestall trouble.  I would have shot Gooja Singh and the Turk and Tugendheim all three with one volley.  And the Turk’s forty men would have met a like fate at the first excuse.  But that is because I was afraid, whereas Ranjoor Singh was not.  I greatly feared being left behind to bring the men along, and the more I thought of it, the worse the prospect seemed; so I began to tell of things I had heard Gooja Singh say against him, and which of the men I had heard and seen to agree, for there is no good sense in a man who is afraid.

“Is it my affair to take vengeance on them, or to lead them into safety?” he asked.  And what could I answer?

After some silence he spread out his map where firelight shone on it and showed Abraham and me where the Tigris River runs by Diarbekr.  “Thus,” he said, “we must go,” pointing with his finger, “and thus—­ and thus—­by Diarbekr, down by the Tigris, by Mosul, into Kurdistan, to Sulimanieh, and thence into Persia—­a very long march through very wild country.  Outside the cities I am told no Turk dare show himself with less than four hundred men at his back, so we will keep to the open.  If the Turks mistake us for Turks, the better for us.  If the tribes mistake us for Turks, the worse for us; for they say the tribes hate Turks worse than smallpox.  If they think we are Turks they will attack us.  We need ride warily.”

“It would take more Turks than there are,” I said, “to keep our ruffians from trying to plunder the first city they see!  And as for tribes—­they are in a mood to join with any one who will help make trouble!”

“Then it may be,” he answered quietly, “that they will not lack exercise!  Follow me and lend a hand!” And he led down toward the camp-fires, where very few men slept and voices rose upward like the noise of a quarrelsome waterfall.