One afternoon, when I was pretending to doze in a niche near the entrance to Colonel Kirby’s funk-hole, I became possessed of the key to it all; for Colonel Kirby’s voice was raised more than once in anger.  I understood at last how Ranjoor Singh had orders to deceive the Germans as to our state of mind.  He was to make them believe we were growing mutinous and that the leaven only needed time in which to work; this of course for the purpose of throwing them off their guard.

My heart stopped beating while I listened, for what man hears his honor smirched without wincing?  Even so I think I would have held my tongue, only that Gooja Singh, who dozed in a niche on the other side of the funk-hole entrance, heard the same as I.

Said Gooja Singh that evening to the troopers round about:  “They chose well,” said he.  “They picked a brave man—­a clever man, for a desperate venture!” And when the troopers asked what that might mean, he asked how many of them in the Punjab had seen a goat tied to a stake to lure a panther.  The suggestion made them think.  Then, pretending to praise him, letting fall no word that could be thrown back in his teeth, he condemned Ranjoor Singh for a worse traitor than any had yet believed him.  Gooja Singh was a man with a certain subtlety.  A man with two tongues, very dangerous.

“Ranjoor Singh is brave,” said he, “for he is not afraid to sacrifice us all.  Many officers are afraid to lose too many men in the gaining of an end, but not so he.  He is clever, for who else would have thought of making us seem despicable to the Germans in order to tempt them to attack in force at this point?  Have ye not noticed how to our rear all is being made ready for the defense and for a counter-attack to follow?  We are the bait.  The battle is to be waged over our dead bodies.”

I corrected him.  I said I had heard as well as he, and that Colonel Kirby was utterly angry at the defamation of those whom he was ever pleased to call “his Sikhs.”  But that convinced nobody, although it did the colonel sahib no harm in the regiment’s opinion—­not that he needed advocates.  We were all ready to die around Colonel Kirby at any minute.  Even Gooja Singh was ready to do that.

“Does the colonel sahib accept the situation?” one of the troopers asked.

“Aye, for he must,” said Gooja Singh; and I could not deny it.  “Ranjoor Singh went over his head and orders have come from the rear.”  I could not deny that either, although I did not believe it.  How should I, or any one, know what passed after Ranjoor Singh had been sent for by the Intelligence officers?  I was his half-friend in those days, sahib.  Worse than his enemy—­unwilling to take part against him, yet unready to speak up in his defense.  Doubtless my silence went for consent among the troopers.

The end of the discussion found men unafraid.  “If the colonel sahib is willing to be bait,” said they, “then so be we, but let us see to it that none hang back.”  And so the whole regiment made up its mind to die desperately, yet with many a sidewise glance at Ranjoor Singh, who was watched more carefully than I think he guessed in those days.  If he had tried to slip back to the rear it would have been the end of him.  But he continued with us.