Colonel Matthew Devon De Warrenne, commanding the Queen's Own (118th)
Bombay Lancers, was in good time, in his best review-order uniform,
and in a terrible state of mind.

He strode from end to end of the long verandah of his bungalow with
clank of steel, creak of leather, and groan of travailing soul. As the
top of his scarlet, blue and gold turban touched the lamp that hung a
good seven feet above his spurred heels he swore viciously.

Almost for the first time in his hard-lived, selfish life he had been
thwarted, flouted, cruelly and evilly entreated, and the worst of it
was that his enemy was--not a man whom he could take by the throat,
but--Fate.

Fate had dealt him a cruel blow, and he felt as he would have done had
he, impotent, seen one steal the great charger that champed and pawed
there at the door, and replace it by a potter's donkey. Nay,
worse--for he had _loved_ Lenore, his wife, and Fate had stolen her
away and replaced her by a squealing brat.

Within a year of his marriage his wife was dead and buried, and his
son alive and--howling. He could hear him (curse him!).

The Colonel glanced at his watch, producing it from some mysterious
recess beneath his belted golden sash and within his pale blue tunic.

Not yet time to ride to the regimental parade-ground and lead his
famous corps to its place on the brigade parade-ground for the New
Year Review and march-past.