Yet when we rode out of Delhi Gate it was as if a miracle took place.  A stiffening passed along the squadron.  A trooper caught sight of Ranjoor Singh standing beside some bullock carts, and passed the word.  I, too, saw him.  He was with a Muhammadan bunnia, and was dressed to resemble one himself.

The trooper who was first to see him—­a sharp-eyed man—­he died at Ypres—­Singh means lion, sahib—­now recognized the man who stood with him.  “That bunnia,” said he, “is surely none other than the European who gave us the newspaper clippings about Sikhs not allowed to land in Canada.  See—­he is disguised like a fool.  Are the police asleep,” said he, “that such thieves dare sun themselves?”

It was true enough, sahib.  The man in disguise was German, and we remembered again that Ranjoor Singh knew German.  From that moment we rode like new men—­I, too, although I because I trusted Ranjoor Singh now more than ever; they, because they trusted no longer at all, and he can shoulder what seem certainties whom doubt unmans.  No word, but a thought that a man could feel passed all down the line, that whatever our officer might descend to being, the rank and file would prove themselves faithful to the salt.  Thenceforward there was nothing in our bearing to cause our officers anxiety.

You might wonder, sahib, why none broke ranks to expose both men on the spot.  I did not because I trusted Ranjoor Singh.  I reasoned he would never have dared be seen by us if he truly were a traitor.  It seemed to me I knew how his heart must burn to be riding with us.  They did not because they would not willingly have borne the shame.  I tell no secret when I say there has been treason in the Punjab; the whole world knows that.  Yet few understand that the cloak under which it all made headway was the pride of us true ones, who would not own to treason in our midst.  Pride and the shadow of shame are one, sahib, but who believes it until the shame bears fruit?

Before the last squadron had ridden by, Captain Warrington, our adjutant, also caught sight of Ranjoor Singh.  He spurred after Colonel Kirby, and Colonel Kirby came galloping back; but before he could reach Delhi Gate Ranjoor Singh had disappeared and D Squadron was glad to the last man.

“Let us hope he may die like a rat in a hole and bring no more shame on us!” said Gooja Singh, and many assented.

“He said he will be with us before the blood shall run!” said I.

“Then we know whose blood shall run first!” said the trooper nearest me, and those who heard him laughed.  So I held my tongue.  There is no need of argument while a man yet lives to prove himself.  I had charge of the party that burned that trooper’s body.  He was one of the first to fall after we reached France.

Colonel Kirby, looking none too pleased, came trotting back to us, and we rode on.  And we entrained.  Later on we boarded a great ship in Bombay harbor and put to sea, most of us thinking by that time of families and children, and some no doubt of money-lenders who might foreclose on property in our absence, none yet suspecting that the government will take steps to prevent that.  It is not only the British officer, sahib, who borrows money at high interest lest his shabbiness shame the regiment.