Hira Singh


CHAPTER I


Let a man, an arrow, and an answer each go straight. Each is his own
witness. God is judge.
--EASTERN PROVERB.


A Sikh who must have stood about six feet without his turban--and
only imagination knows how stately he was with it--loomed out of the
violet mist of an Indian morning and scrutinized me with calm brown
eyes. His khaki uniform, like two of the medal ribbons on his
breast, was new, but nothing else about him suggested rawness.
Attitude, grayness, dignity, the unstudied strength of his
politeness, all sang aloud of battles won. Battles with himself they
may have been--but they were won.

I began remembering ice-polished rocks that the glaciers once
dropped along Maine valleys, when his quiet voice summoned me back
to India and the convalescent camp beyond whose outer gate I stood.
Two flags on lances formed the gate and the boundary line was mostly
imaginary; but one did not trespass, because at about the point
where vision no longer pierced the mist there stood a sentry, and