"Poor devil!" said the colonel, coughing tremendously. "We ought
to send him to hospital. He's been man-handled."

Now the adjutant loved his carbines. They were to him as his
grandchildren, the men standing in the first place. He grunted
rebelliously: "I can understand an Afghan stealing, because he's
built that way. But I can't understand his crying. That makes it
worse."

The brandy must have affected Dirkovitch, for he lay back in his
chair and stared at the ceiling. There was nothing special in the
ceiling beyond a shadow as of a huge black coffin. Owing to some
peculiarity in the construction of the mess-room, this shadow was
always thrown when the candles were lighted. It never disturbed
the digestion of the White Hussars. They were in fact rather proud
of it.

"Is he going to cry all night?" said the colonel, "or are we
supposed to sit up with little Mildred's guest until he feels
better?"

The man in the chair threw up his head and stared at the mess.
"Oh, my God!" he said, and every soul in the mess rose to his
feet. Then the Lushkar captain did a deed for which he ought to
have been given the Victoria Cross - distinguished gallantry in a
fight against overwhelming curiosity. He picked up his team with
his eyes as the hostess picks up the ladies at the opportune
moment, and pausing only by the colonel's chair to say, "This
isn't our affair, you know, sir," led them into the verandah and