CHAPTER X

‘What’s this?’ said Colonel Starr, looking up from his camp table, where he was writing a final message for translation to the Maharajah.  The sun was on the point of rising, the air was crisp, and the sky was splendid.  Lalpore, on her buttressed slope, sat as proud and as silent as ever; but something like a blue ribbon floated from the south wall over the river.

‘What’s this?’ said Colonel Starr, with the deepest possible astonishment.

‘Pris’ner, sir,’ answered Thomas Jones, saluting.

‘What?’ said the Colonel.  ‘Nonsense!  Where did you get him?’

’Beg pardon, sir.  Peters were on duty, sir, at the second outpost, sir.  It were about two hours ago as far as I could judge, sir, not ‘avin’ the time by me.  Peters seed pris’ner a-comin’ strite fer the camp across the sands from the river, sir.  Peters sings out “Oo goes?” H’AND there been no notiss took, pints, sir.’

‘Yes,’ interposed Sunni, composedly, in his best English, ’he did.  But he did not fire.  And that was well, for he might have hit me.  I am not broken.’

‘Go on, Jones,’ said the Colonel.  ‘This is very queer.’

’Pris’ner were about ten yards off, sir, ’an, as ’e says, Peters might ’a hit ‘im,’ said Sergeant Jones, with solemn humour, ’but afore he’d made up ’is mind to fire, ’e’d come so close Peters saw ‘ow small he was, an’ therefore didn’t, sir.’

‘Quite right,’ remarked Sunni.  ‘Peters might have killed me.’

The Colonel nodded.  He was looking with absorbed interest into Sunni’s eyes.  He came out of his instant of abstraction with a start, while Jones went on with respectful volubility.

‘Beggin’ pardon, sir, Peters says as ’ow ’e were all struck of a heap, sir, at ‘earin’ the young ‘un call out in English, sir, an’ bein’ so light complected fer a native, sir, an’ even lighter in that light, Peters didn’t rightly know wot ‘e might be firin’ at, sir.  Peters do be a bit superstitious.’

‘Peters took him then, I suppose?’ The Colonel smiled ironically.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, it was rather ’im as took Peters.  ’E walked strite up to ‘im, an’ “Ware is the burra[1] sahib?” says ’e.  Peters sends ’im into the guard tent to me as ’e passed on his beat, and pris’ner says “You ain’t the burra sahib,” says he.  Then I says to pris’ner, “You bito[2] an’ give an account of yerself,” says I. Says ’e quite ’aughty like, “I’ll account fer myself to the burra sahib,” an’ wouldn’t take no chaff.  But ‘e bitoes, an’ curls ‘isself up in the sand, an’ goes sound asleep in no time—­an’ ’ere ‘e is, sir.’

[1] ‘Principal.’

[2] ‘Sit down on the ground.’

‘Also,’ corrected Sunni, ’he gave me some coffee.  He is a good man.  Are you the burra sahib?’ he asked the Colonel.

But Colonel Starr was not in a mood to answer questions regarding his dignity.  He looked at the queer slender figure before him, in its torn coat of embroidered silk, and its narrow, shapeless, dirty cotton trousers; and especially he looked at the boy’s hair and eyes—­his wavy yellow hair and his blue eyes.