It was less than three days later when the word came mysteriously through the undiscoverable “underground” route of India for all men to be ready.

“By the next full moon,” went the message, from the priests alone knew where, “all India will be waiting.  When the full moon rises then the hour is come!”

“And when that full moon rises,” thought Jaimihr to himself, “my brother’s funeral rites will be past history!”

For the present, though, he made believe to regret his recent rage, and was courteous to priest and Maharajah alike—­even sending to his brother to apologize.

CHAPTER XXII

They’ve called thee by an evil word,
They’ve named thee traitor, friend o’ mine. 
Thou askest faith?  I send my sword. 
There is no greater, friend o’ mine.

Ralph Cunningham said good-by to Brigadier-General Byng (Byng the Brigadier) with more feeling of regret and disappointment than he cared to show.  A born soldier, he did his hard-mouthed utmost to refrain from whining; he even pretended that a political appointment was a recognizable advance along the road to sure success—­or, rather, pretended that he thought it was; and the Brigadier, who knew men, and particularly young men, detected instantly the telltale expression of the honest gray eyes—­analyzed it—­and, to Cunningham’s amazement, approved the unwilling make-believe.

“Now, buck up, Cunningham!” he said, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder.  “You’re making a good, game effort to hide chagrin, and you’re a good, game ass for your pains.  There isn’t one man in all India who has half your luck at this minute, if you only knew it; but go ahead and find out for yourself!  Go to Abu and report, but waste no more time there than you can help.  Hurry on to Howrah, and once you’re there, if Mahommed Gunga tells you what looks like a lie, trust him to the hilt!”

“Is he coming with me, then?” asked Cunningham in some amazement.

“Yes—­unofficially.  He has relations in that neighborhood and wants to visit them; he is going to take advantage of your pack-train and escort.  You’ll have a small escort as far as Abu; after that you’ll be expected to look out for yourself.  The escort is made up of details travelling down-country; they’ll leave you at Abu Road.”

So, still unbelieving—­still wondering why the Brigadier should go to all that trouble to convince him that politics in a half-forgotten native state were fair meat for a soldier—­Cunningham rode off at the head of a variously made-up travelling party, grudging every step of that wonderful mare Mahommed Gunga had given him, that bore him away from the breeze-swept north—­away from the mist-draped hills he had already learned to love—­ever down, down, down into the hell-baked plains.

Each rest-house where he spent a night was but another brooding-place of discontent and regret, each little petty detail connected with the command of the motley party (mainly time-expired men, homeward bound), was drudgery; each Hindoo pugree that he met was but a beastly contrast, or so it seemed to him, to the turbans of the troop that but a week ago had thundered at his back.