There was a woman.  Did the sahib ever hear of a plot that had not a woman in it?  He went to the woman’s house.  In hiding, I heard her sneer at him.  I heard her mock him.  I would have doubted him forever if I had heard her praise him, but she did not, and I knew him to be a true man.

Ours is more like the French than the British system; there is more intercourse between officer and non-commissioned officer and man.  But Ranjoor Singh is a silent man, and we of his squadron, though we respected him, knew little of what was in his mind.  When there began to be talk about his knowing German, and about his secrecy, and about his nights spent at her place, who could answer?  We all knew he knew German.

There were printed pamphlets from God-knows-where, and letters from America, that made pretense at explanations; and there were spies who whispered.  My voice, saying I had listened and seen and that I trusted, was as a quail’s note when the monsoon bursts.  None heard.  So that in the end I held my tongue.  I even began to doubt.

Then a trooper of ours was murdered in the bazaar, and Ranjoor Singh’s servant disappeared.  Within an hour Ranjoor Singh was gone, too.

Then came news of war.  Then our officers came among us to ask whether we are willing or not to take a hand in this great quarrel.  Perhaps in that hour if they had not asked us we might have judged that we and they were not one after all.

But they did ask, and let a man, an arrow, and an answer each go straight, say we.  Our Guru tells us Sikhs should fight ever on the side of the oppressed; the weaker the oppressed, the more the reason for our taking part with them.  Our officers made no secret about the strength of the enemy, and we made none with them of our feeling in the matter.  They were proud men that day.  Colonel Kirby was a very proud man.  We were prouder than he, except when we thought of Ranjoor Singh.

Then, as it were out of the night itself, there came a message by word of mouth from Ranjoor Singh saying he will be with us before the blood shall run.  We were overjoyed at that, and talked about it far into the night; yet when dawn had come doubt again had hold of us, and I think I was the only Sikh in the regiment ready to swear to his integrity.  Once, at least a squadron of us had loved him to the death because we thought him an example of Sikh honor.  Now only I and our British officers believed in him.

We are light cavalry.  We were first of all the Indian regiments to ride out of Delhi and entrain at a station down the line.  That was an honor, and the other squadrons rode gaily, but D Squadron hung its head.  I heard men muttering in the ranks and some I rebuked to silence, but my rebukes lightened no man’s heart.  In place of Ranjoor Singh rode Captain Fellowes, promoted from another squadron, and noticing our lack of spirit, he did his best to inspire us with fine words and manly bearing; but we felt ashamed that our own Sikh major was not leading us, and did not respond to encouragement.