I reached the conclusion myself that we were being sent to fight against the Russians, and I know not what the troopers thought; they were beginning to be like caged madmen.  But suddenly we reached a broad river I knew must be the Danube and were allowed at last to leave the train.  We were so glad to move about again that any news seemed good news, and when Ranjoor Singh, after much talk with our staff officer and some other Germans, came and told us that Bulgaria had joined the war on the side of the Central Powers, we laughed and applauded.

“That means that our road lies open before us,” Ranjoor Singh said darkly.

“Our road whither?” said I.

“To Stamboul!” said he.

“What are we to do at Stamboul?” asked Gooja Singh, and the staff officer, whose name I never knew, heard him and came toward us.

“At Stamboul,” said he, in fairly good Punjabi, “you will strike a blow beside our friends, the Turks.  Not very far from Stamboul you shall be given opportunity for vengeance on the British.  The next-to-the-last stage of your journey lies through Bulgaria, and the beginning of it will be on that steamer.”

We saw the steamer, lying with its nose toward the bank.  It was no very big one for our number, but they marched us to it, Ranjoor Singh striding at our head as if all the world were unfolding before him, and all were his.  We were packed on board and the steamer started at once, Ranjoor Singh and the staff officer sharing the upper part with the steamer’s captain, and Tugendheim elbowing us for room on the open deck.  So we journeyed for a whole day and part of a night down the Danube, Tugendheim pointing out to me things I should observe along the route, but grumbling vastly at separation from his regiment.

“You bloody Sikhs!” said he.  “I would rather march with lice—­yet what can I do?  I must obey orders.  See that castle!” There were many castles, sahib, at bends and on hilltops overlooking the river.  “They built that,” said he, “in the good old days before men ever heard of Sikhs.  Life was worth while in those days, and a man lived a lifetime with his regiment!”

“Ah!” said I, choosing not to take offense; for one fool can make trouble that perhaps a thousand wise men can not still.  If he had thought, he must have known that we Sikhs spend a lifetime with our regiments, and therefore know more about such matters than any German reservist.  But he was little given to thought, although not ill-humored in intention.

“Behold that building!” said he.  “That looks like a brewery!  Consider the sea of beer they brew there once a month, and then think of your oath of abstinence and what you miss!”

So he talked, ever nudging me in the ribs until I grew sore and my very gorge revolted at his foolishness.  So we sailed, passing along a river that at another time would have delighted me beyond power of speech.  A day and a night we sailed, our little steamer being one of a fleet all going one way.  Tugs and tugs and tugs there were, all pulling strings of barges.  It was as if all the tugs and barges out of Austria were hurrying with all the plunder of Europe God knew whither.