“Am I to be herdsman, then?” said he, pitching his voice against wind and rain.  “Are ye men—­or animals?  Hunted animals would have known enough to eat and hurry on.  Hunted animals would be wise enough to run in the direction least expected.  Hunted animals would take advantage of ill weather to put distance between them and their foe.  Some of you, then, must be less than animals!  Men I can lead.  Animals I can drive.  But what shall be done with such less-than-animals as can neither be led nor driven?”

Then he turned about half-left to face the three-and-twenty, and stood as it were waiting for their answer, with one hand holding the other wrist behind his back.  And they stood shifting feet and looking back at him, extremely iil-at-ease.

“What is the specific charge against us?” asked Gooja Singh, for the men began to thrust him forward.  But Ranjoor Singh let no man draw him from the main point to a lesser one.

“You have leave,” said he, “to take one box of cartridges and go!  Gallipoli lies that way!” And he pointed through the rain.

Then the two-and-twenty forgot me and began at once abusing Gooja Singh, he trying to refute them, and Ranjoor Singh watching them all with a feeling, I thought, of pity.  Tugendheim, trying to make the ends of his mustaches stand upright in the rain, laughed as if he thought it a very great joke; but the rest of the men looked doubtful.  I knew they were unwilling to turn their backs on any of our number, yet afraid to force an issue, for Ranjoor Singh had them in a quandary.  I thought perhaps I might mediate.

“Sahib,” said I.

“Silence!” he ordered.  So I stepped back to my place, and a dozen men laughed at me, for which I vowed vengeance.  Later when my wrath had cooled I knew the reprimand and laughter wiped out suspicion of me, and when my chance came to take vengeance on them I refrained, although careful to reassert my dignity.

After much argument, Gooja Singh turned his back at last on the two-and-twenty and saluted Ranjoor Singh with great abasement.

“Sahib,” said he, “we have no wish to go one way and you another.  We be of the regiment.”

“Ye have set yourselves up to be dictators.  Ye have used wild words.  Ye have tried to seduce the rest.  Ye have my leave to go!” said Ranjoor Singh.

“Nay!” said Gooja Singh.  “We will not go!  We follow the regiment!”

“Will ye follow like dogs that pick up offal, then?” he asked, and Gooja Singh said, “Nay!  We be no dogs, but true men!  We be faithful to the salt, sahib,” said he.  “We be sorry we offended.  We be true men—­true to the salt.”

Now, that was the truth.  Their fault had lain in not believing their officer at least as faithful as they and ten times wiser.  Every man in the regiment knew it was truth, and for all that the rain poured down in torrents, obscuring vision, I could see that the general feeling was swinging all one way.  If I had dared, I would have touched Ranjoor Singh’s elbow, and have whispered to him.  But I did not dare.  Nor was there need.  The instant he spoke again I knew he saw clearer than I.