“How long was it before Gooja Singh came?” he asked.

“He came almost before I had laid you under the tree and covered you,” said I.

“And you told him I was asleep?” he said.

“Yes,” said I; and at that he laughed silently, although I could tell well enough that his head ached, and merriment must have been a long way from him.

“Has Gooja Singh any very firm friend with us?” he asked, and I answered I did not know of one.  “The ammunition bearers who were his friends now curse him to his face,” I said.

“Then he would have to do his own dirty work?” said he.

“He has to clean his own rifle,” I answered.  And Ranjoor Singh nodded.

Then suddenly his meaning dawned on me.  “You think it was Gooja Singh who struck the blow?” I asked.  We were sitting up by that time.  The camels were out of sight.  He rose to his feet and beckoned for his horse before he answered.

“I wished to know who else might properly be suspected,” he said, taking his horse’s bridle.  So I beckoned for my horse, and ordering the cart in which he had lain to be brought along after us, I rode at a walk beside him to where our infantry were left in hiding.

“Sahib,” I said, “it is better after all to shoot this Gooja Singh.  Shoot him on suspicion!” I urged.  “He makes only trouble and ill-will.  He puts false construction on every word you or I utter.  He misleads the men.  And now you suspect him of having tried to kill you!  Bid me shoot him, sahib, and I obey!”

“Who says I suspect him?” he answered.  “Nay, nay, nay!  I will have no murder done—­no drumhead tyranny, fathered by the lees of fear!  Let Gooja Singh alone!”

“Does your head not ache?” I asked him.

“More than you guess!” said he.  “But my heart does not ache.  Two aches would be worse than one.  Come silently!”

So I rode beside him silently, and making a circuit and signaling to the watchers not to betray our presence, we came on our hiding infantry unsuspected by them.  We dismounted, and going close on foot were almost among them before they knew.  Gooja Singh was on his feet in their midst, giving them information and advice.

“I tell you Ranjoor Singh is dead!” said he.  “Hira Singh swears he is only asleep, but Hira Singh lies!  Ranjoor Singh lies dead on top of the corn in the cart in yonder gully, and Hira Singh—­”

I know not what more he would have said, but Ranjoor Singh stopped him.  He stepped forward, smiling.

“Ranjoor Singh, as you see, is alive,” he said, “and if I am dead, then I must be the ghost of Ranjoor Singh come among you to enforce his orders!  Rise!” he ordered.  “Rise and fall in!  Havildars, make all ready to resume the march!”

“Shoot him, sahib!” I urged, taking out my pistol, that had once been Tugendheim’s.  “Shoot him, or let me do it I”

“Nay, nay!” he said, laughing in my face, though not unkindly.  “I am not afraid of him.”