“Ten!” said the Kurd.  “Ten against ten!”

“One!” said Ranjoor Singh, and I thought they would quarrel and the whole plan would come to nothing.  But the Kurd gave in.

“Then one officer!” said the Kurd, and I trembled, for I saw that Ranjoor Singh intended to agree to that, and I feared he might pick me.  But no.  If I had thought a minute I would not have feared, yet who thinks at such times?  The men who think first of their charge and last of their own skin are such as Ranjoor Singh; a year after war begins they are still leading.  The rest of us must either be content to be led, or else are superseded.  I burst into a sweat all over, for all that a cold wind swept among the rocks.  Yet I might have known I was not to be spared.

After two seconds, that seemed two hours, he said to the Kurd, “Very well.  We are agreed.  I will give you one of my officers against ten of your men.  I will give you Gooja Singh!” said he.

Sahib, I could have rolled among the rocks and laughed.  The look of rage mingled with amazement on Gooja Singh’s fat face was payment enough for all the insults I had received from him.  I could not conceal all my merriment.  Doubtless my eyes betrayed me.  I doubt not they blazed.  Gooja Singh was sitting on the other side of Ranjoor Singh, partly facing me, so that he missed nothing of what passed over my face—­as I scarcely intended that he should.  And in a moment my mirth was checked by sight of his awful wrath.  His face had turned many shades darker.

“I am to be hostage?” he said in a voice like grinding stone.

“Aye,” said Ranjoor Singh.  “Be a proud one!  They have had to give ten men to weigh against you in the scale!”

“And I am to go away with them all by myself into the mountains?”

“Aye,” said Ranjoor Singh.  “Why not?  We hold ten of theirs against your safe return.”

“Good!  Then I will go!” he answered, and I knew by the black look on his face and by the dull rage in his voice that he would harm us if he could.  But there was no time just then to try to dissuade Ranjoor Singh from his purpose, even had I dared.  There began to be great argument about the ten hostages the Kurd should give, Ranjoor Singh examining each one with the aid of Abraham, rejecting one man after another as not sufficiently important, and it was two hours before ten Kurds that satisfied him stood unarmed in our midst.  Then he gave up Gooja Singh in exchange for them; and Gooja Singh walked away among the Kurds without so much as a backward look, or a word of good-by, or a salute.

“He should be punished for not saluting you,” said I, going to Ranjoor Singh’s side.  “It is a bad example to the troopers.”

“Kuch—­Kuch—­,” said he.  “No trouble.  Black hearts beget black deeds.  White hearts, good deeds.  Maybe we all misjudged him.  Let him prove whether he is true at heart or not.”

Observe, sahib, how he identified himself with us, although he knew well that all except I until recently had denied him title to any other name than traitor.  “Maybe we all misjudged,” said he, as much as to say, “What my men have done, I did.”  So you may tell the difference between a great man and a mean one.