I shuddered at that.  I remembered the bombardment that preceded our first advance.  Better die at the hands of the enemy, thought I. But I said nothing.  Presently, however, a new thought came to me, and I called to Ranjoor Singh along the trench.

“You should have made a better bargain,” said I.  “You should have compelled them to care for our wounded before they were allowed to take their own!”

“I demanded, but they refused,” he answered, and then I wished I had bitten out my tongue rather than speak, for although I believed his answer, the rest of the men did not.  There began to be new murmuring against him, led by Gooja Singh; but Gooja Singh was too subtle to be convicted of the responsibility.

Captain Fellowes grew aware of the murmuring and made much show thenceforward of his faith in Ranjoor Singh.  He was weak from his wound and was attended constantly by two men, so that although he kept command of the left wing and did ably he could not shout loud enough to be heard very far, and he had to send messages to Ranjoor Singh from mouth to mouth.  His evident approval had somewhat the effect of subduing the men’s resentment, although not much, and when he died that night there was none left, save I, to lend our leader countenance.  And I was only his half-friend, without enough merit in my heart truly to be the right-hand man I was by right of seniority.  I was willing enough to die at his back, but not to share contempt with him.

The day passed and there came another day, when the bread was done, and there were no more German wounded straddled in the mud over whom to strike new bargains.  It had ceased raining, so we could catch no rain to drink.  We were growing weak from weariness and want of sleep, and we demanded of Ranjoor Singh that he lead us back toward the British lines.

“We should perish on the way,” said he.

“What of it?” we answered, I with the rest.  “Better that than this vulture’s death in a graveyard!”

But he shook his head and ordered us to try to think like men.  “The life of a Sikh,” said he, “and the oath of a Sikh are one.  We swore to serve our friends.  To try to cut our way back would be but to die for our own comfort.”

“You should have led us back that first night, when the attack was spent,” said Gooja Singh.

“I was not in command that first night,” Ranjoor Singh answered him, and who could gainsay that?

At irregular intervals British shells began bursting near us, and we all knew what they were.  The batteries were feeling for the range.  They would begin a new bombardment.  Now, therefore, is the end, said we.  But Ranjoor Singh stood up with his head above the trench and began shouting to the Germans.  They answered him.  Then, to our utter astonishment, he tore the shirt from a dead man, tied it to a rifle, and held it up.