with Colonel Kirby. We heard--although I do not know whether it is
true or not--that the major was shot that evening with his face to a
wall. I do know that I, in company with several troopers, was cross-
examined by interpreters that day in presence of Colonel Kirby and a
French general and some of the general's staff.

There began to be talk at last about Ranjoor Singh. I heard men say
it was no great wonder, after all, that he should have turned
traitor, for it was plain he must have been tempted cunningly. Yet
there was no forgiveness for him. They grew proud that where he had
failed they could stand firm; and there is no mercy in proud men's
minds--nor much wisdom either.

At last a day came--too soon for the horses, but none too soon for
us--when we marched through the streets to entrain for the front. As
we had marched first out of Delhi, so we marched first from
Marseilles now. Only the British regiments from India were on ahead
of us; we led the Indian-born contingent.

French wives and children, and some cripples, lined the streets to
cheer and wave their handkerchiefs. We were on our way to help their
husbands defend France, and they honored us. It was our due. But can
the sahib accept his due with a dry eye and a word in his throat?
Nay! It is only ingratitude that a man can swallow unconcerned. No
man spoke. We rode like graven images, and I think the French women
wondered at our silence. I know that I, for one, felt extremely
willing to die for France; and I thought of Ranjoor Singh and of how
his heart, too, would have burned if he had been with us. With such
thoughts as swelled in my own breast, it was not in me to believe
him false, whatever the rest might think.