Nor were all the spies Italians, after all.  Our hearts went out to the French.  We were glad to be on their side—­glad to help them defend their country.  I shall be glad to my dying day that I have struck a blow for France.  Yet the only really dangerous man of all who tried to corrupt us in Marseilles was a French officer of the rank of major, who could speak our tongue as well as I. He said with sorrow that the French were already as good as vanquished, and that he pitied us as lambs sent to the slaughter.  The part, said he, of every wise man was to go over to the enemy before the day should come for paying penalties.

I told what he had said to me to a risaldar, and the risaldar spoke with Colonel Kirby.  We heard—­although I do not know whether it is true or not—­that the major was shot that evening with his face to a wall.  I do know that I, in company with several troopers, was cross-examined by interpreters that day in presence of Colonel Kirby and a French general and some of the general’s staff.

There began to be talk at last about Ranjoor Singh.  I heard men say it was no great wonder, after all, that he should have turned traitor, for it was plain he must have been tempted cunningly.  Yet there was no forgiveness for him.  They grew proud that where he had failed they could stand firm; and there is no mercy in proud men’s minds—­nor much wisdom either.

At last a day came—­too soon for the horses, but none too soon for us—­when we marched through the streets to entrain for the front.  As we had marched first out of Delhi, so we marched first from Marseilles now.  Only the British regiments from India were on ahead of us; we led the Indian-born contingent.

French wives and children, and some cripples, lined the streets to cheer and wave their handkerchiefs.  We were on our way to help their husbands defend France, and they honored us.  It was our due.  But can the sahib accept his due with a dry eye and a word in his throat?  Nay!  It is only ingratitude that a man can swallow unconcerned.  No man spoke.  We rode like graven images, and I think the French women wondered at our silence.  I know that I, for one, felt extremely willing to die for France; and I thought of Ranjoor Singh and of how his heart, too, would have burned if he had been with us.  With such thoughts as swelled in my own breast, it was not in me to believe him false, whatever the rest might think.

D Squadron proved in good fortune that day, for they gave us a train of passenger coaches with seats, and our officers had a first-class coach in front.  The other squadrons, and most of the other regiments, had to travel in open trucks, although I do not think any grumbled on that score.  There was a French staff officer to each train, and he who rode in our train had an orderly who knew English; the orderly climbed in beside me and we rode miles together, talking all the time, he surprising me vastly more than I him.  We exchanged information as two boys that play a game—­I a move, then he a move, then I again, then he.