“Jaidev Singh—­galloper to Byng-bahadur.  I bring a letter for the Risaldar Mahommed Gunga, or for Cunnigan-sahib, whichever I can find first.”

“They are both here.”

“Then my letter is for both of them.”

Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga each took one step forward, and the Sikh gave Cunningham a tiny, folded piece of paper, stuck together along one edge with native gum.  He tore it open, read it in the light of a trooper’s lantern, and then read it again aloud to Mahommed Gunga, pitching his voice high enough for Alwa to listen if he chose.

“What are you two men doing?” ran the note.  “The very worst has happened.  We all need men immediately, and I particularly need them.  One hundred troopers now would be better than a thousand men a month from now.  Hurry, and send word by bearer.  S. F. Byng.”

“How soon can you start back?” asked Cunningham.

“The minute I am provided with a horse, sahib.”

Cunningham turned to Alwa.

“Will you be kind enough to feed him, Alwa-sahib?”

Alwa resented the imputation against his hospitality instantly.

“Nay, I was waiting for his money in advance!” he laughed.  “Food waits, thou.  Thou art a Sikh—­thou eatest meat—­meat, then, is ready.”

The Sikh, or at least the true Sikh, is not hampered by a list of caste restrictions.  All of his precepts, taken singly or collectively, bid him be nothing but a man, and no law forbids him accept the hospitality of soldiers of another creed.  So Jaidev Singh walked off to feed on curried beef that would have made a Hindoo know himself for damned.  Cunningham then turned on Alwa.

“Now is the time, Alwa-sahib,” he said in a level voice.  “My party can start off with this man and our answer, if your answer is no.  If your answer is yes, then the Sikh can bear that answer for us.”

“You would none of you ride half a mile alive!” laughed Alwa.

“I none the less require an answer, Alwa-sahib.”

Alwa stared hard at him.  That was the kind of talk that went straight to his soldier heart.  He loved a man who held to his point in the teeth of odds.  The odds, it seemed to him, were awfully against Cunningham.

“So was thy father,” he said slowly.  “My cousin said thou wast thy father’s son!”

“I require an answer by the time that the Sikh has finished eating,” said Cunningham.  “Otherwise, Alwa-sabib, I shall regret the necessity of foregoing further hospitality at your hands.”

“Bismillah!  Am I servant here or master?” wondered Alwa, loud enough for all his men to hear.  Then he thought better of his dignity.  “Sahib,” he insisted, “I will not talk here before my men.  We will have another conference.”

“I concede you ten minutes,” said Cunningham, preparing to follow him, and followed in turn by Mohammed Gunga.

“Now, swore the Risaldar into his beard, we shall see the reaching of decisions!  Now, by the curse of the sack of Chitor we shall know who is on whose side, or I am no Rangar, nor the son of one!”