not be beaten. But the strain, mental and physical, of trench life was too
much.

To the Indian, war is a religion. One day I went down the line to where a
body of Ghurkas were lying to our left. I walked along about a mile through
the muddy ditches and at last came up with one of the men. I stopped and
spoke, then offered him a fag. After this interchange of courtesies we
fell into conversation. He did not know very much English, and I no
Hindustani at all, but in a short time one of the Ghurka officers
approached. The officers and men of these regiments are very friendly, more
chummy almost than are our officers to our men. This officer acted as an
interpreter, and together they told me much that I was anxious to know.

After a little I asked the Ghurka to show me his knife, but he would not.
The Ghurka knife is a weapon of wonderful grace. It is short and sharpened
on both edges, while it is broad and curved almost to the angle of a
sickle. It is used in a flat sweeping movement, which, when wielded by an
expert, severs a limb or a head at one blow. I was told that at twenty
yards, when they throw it, they never miss.

At last, through the agency of the officer, I found that it is against all
the laws of battle for a soldier of this clan to remove his knife from the
scabbard unless he draws blood with the naked blade. The unfailing courtesy
of the Hindu forbade a continued refusal, and as I urged him the soldier
at last slowly drew the blade from its sheath. He did not raise it for me
to examine, nor did he lift his eyes to mine until he had pricked his hand
between the thumb and first finger and raised a jet of his own red blood.
Then only did I have the privilege of looking at his treasured weapon.

The Hindu warrior believes that to die in battle is to win at once a