“Whither are they taking all this stuff?” I asked Ranjoor Singh when he came down among us to inspect our rations.  He and I stood together at the stern, and I waved my arm to designate the fleet of floating things.  We were almost the only troops, although there were soldiers here and there on the tugs and barges, taking charge and supervising.

“To Stamboul,” said he.  “Bulgaria is in.  The road to Stamboul is open.”

“Sahib,” said I, “I know you are true to the raj.  I know the surrender in Flanders was the only course possible for one to whom the regiment had been entrusted.  I know this business of taking the German side is all pretense.  Are we on the way to Stamboul?”

“Aye,” said he.

“What are we to do at Stamboul?” I asked him.

“If you know all you say you know,” said he, “why let the future trouble you?”

“But—–­” said I.

“Nay,” said he, “there can be no ‘but.’  There is false and true.  The one has no part in the other.  What say the men?”

“They are true to the raj,” said I.

“All of them?” he asked.

“Nay, sahib,” said I.  “Not quite all of them, but almost all.”

He nodded.  “We shall discover before long which are false and which are true,” said he, and then he left me.

So I told the men that we were truly on our way to Stamboul, and there began new wondering and new conjecturing.  The majority decided at once that we were to be sent to Gallipoli to fight beside the Turks in the trenches there, and presently they all grew very determined to put no obstacle in the Germans’ way but to go to Gallipoli with good will.  Once there, said they all, it should be easy to cross to the British trenches under cover of the darkness.

“We will take Ranjoor Singh with us,” they said darkly.  “Then he can make explanation of his conduct in the proper time and place!” I saw one man hold his turban end as if it were a bandage over his eyes, and several others snapped their fingers to suggest a firing party.  Many of the others laughed.  Men in the dark, thought I, are fools to do anything but watch and listen.  Outlines change with the dawn, thought I, and I determined to reserve my judgment on all points except one—­that I set full faith in Ranjoor Singh.  But the men for the most part had passed judgment and decided on a plan; so it came about that there was no trouble in the matter of getting them to Stamboul—­or Constantinople, as Europeans call it.

At a place in Bulgaria whose name I have forgotten we disembarked and became escort to a caravan of miscellaneous stores, proceeding by forced marches over an abominable road.  And after I forget how many days and nights we reached a railway and were once more packed into a train.  Throughout that march, although we traversed wild country where any or all of us might easily have deserted among the mountains, Ranjoor Singh seemed so well to understand our intention that he scarcely troubled himself to call the roll.  He sat alone by a little fire at night, and slept beside it wrapped in an overcoat and blanket.  And when we boarded a train again he was once more alone in a compartment to himself.  Once more I was compelled to sit next to Tugendheim.