Ranjoor Singh.

Then, as it were out of the night itself, there came a message by
word of mouth from Ranjoor Singh saying he will be with us before
the blood shall run. We were overjoyed at that, and talked about it
far into the night; yet when dawn had come doubt again had hold of
us, and I think I was the only Sikh in the regiment ready to swear
to his integrity. Once, at least a squadron of us had loved him to
the death because we thought him an example of Sikh honor. Now only
I and our British officers believed in him.

We are light cavalry. We were first of all the Indian regiments to
ride out of Delhi and entrain at a station down the line. That was
an honor, and the other squadrons rode gaily, but D Squadron hung
its head. I heard men muttering in the ranks and some I rebuked to
silence, but my rebukes lightened no man's heart. In place of
Ranjoor Singh rode Captain Fellowes, promoted from another squadron,
and noticing our lack of spirit, he did his best to inspire us with
fine words and manly bearing; but we felt ashamed that our own Sikh
major was not leading us, and did not respond to encouragement.

Yet when we rode out of Delhi Gate it was as if a miracle took
place. A stiffening passed along the squadron. A trooper caught
sight of Ranjoor Singh standing beside some bullock carts, and
passed the word. I, too, saw him. He was with a Muhammadan bunnia,
and was dressed to resemble one himself.

The trooper who was first to see him--a sharp-eyed man--he died at
Ypres--Singh means lion, sahib--now recognized the man who stood
with him. "That bunnia," said he, "is surely none other than the