“Sahib-bahadur hai!” he shouted, racing back.

The night was instantly alive with jingling movement, as line after line of quite invisible light-horse-men—­self-disciplined and eager to obey—­took up their dressing.  The overhanging cliff of sandstone hid the moon, but here and there there was a gleam of eyeballs in the dark—­now man’s, now horse’s—­and a sheen that was the hint of steel held vertical.  No human being could have guessed the length of the gorge nor the number of the men who waited in it, for the restless chargers stamped in inch-deep sand that deadened sound without seeming to lessen its quantity.

“Salaam, bahadur!”

It was Alwa, saluting with drawn sabre, reining back a pedigreed mare to get all the spectacular emotion out of the encounter that he could.

“Here are fifteen hundred eight and fifty, sahib—­all Rangars—­true believers—­all true men—­all pledged to see thee unsinged through the flames of hell!  Do them the honor of a quick inspection, sahib!”

“Certainly!” smiled Cunningham.

“I have told them, sahib, that their homes, their women, their possessions, and their honor are all guaranteed them.  Also pay.  They make no other terms.”

“I guarantee them all of that,” said Cunningham, loud enough for at least the nearest ranks to hear.

“On thine own honor, sahib?”

“On my word of honor!”

“The promise is enough!  Will you inspect them, sahib?”

“I’ll take their salute first,” said Cunningham.

“Pardon, bahadur!”

Alwa filled his lungs and faced the unseen lines.

“Rangars!” he roared.  “Your leader!  To Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur—­son of Pukka-Cunnigan whom we all knew—­general—­salute—­present—­ sabres!”

There was sudden movement—­the ring of whipped-out metal—­a bird’s wing-beat—­as fifteen hundred hilts rose all together to as many lips —­and a sharp intake of breath all down the line.

It wasn’t bad.  Not bad at all, thought Cunningham.  It was not done as regulars would have worked it.  There was the little matter of the lances, that he could make out dimly here and there, and he could detect even in that gloom that half of the men had been caught wondering how to salute with lance and sabre both.  But that was not their fault; the effort—­the respect behind the effort—­the desire to act altogether—­were all there and striving.  He drew his own mare back a little, and returned their salute with full military dignity.

“Reeeecee—­turn—­sabres!” ordered Alwa, and that movement was accomplished better.

He rode once, slowly, down the long front rank, letting each man look him over—­then back again along the rear rank, risking a kick or two, for there was little room between them and the cliff.  He was not choking now.  The soldier instinct, that is born in a man like statesmanship or poetry, but that never can be taught, had full command over all his other senses, and when he spurred out to the front again his voice rang loud and clear, like a trumpet through the night.