from a barrack-sweeper on the Bengal side of India. Then he slapped
me on the back, and after that sat with his arm around me while the
entertainment lasted. When we left the tent he swore roundly at a
newcomer to the front for not saluting me, who am not entitled to
salute. That is the way of the British. But I was speaking of
Ranjoor Singh. Forgive me, sahib.

The horse his trooper-servant rode was blown and nearly useless, so
that the trooper died that night for lack of a pair of heels,
leaving us none to question as to Ranjoor Singh's late doings. But
Bagh, Ranjoor Singh's charger, being a marvel of a beast whom few
could ride but he, was fresh enough and Ranjoor Singh led us like a
whirlwind beckoning a storm. I judged his heart was on fire. He led
us slantwise into a tight-packed regiment. We rolled it over, and he
took us beyond that into another one. In the dark he re-formed us
(and few but he could have done that then)--lined us up again with
the other squadrons--and brought us back by the way we had come.
Then he took us the same road a second time against remnants of the
men who had withstood us and into yet another regiment that checked
and balked beyond. The Germans probably believed us ten times as
many as we truly were, for that one setback checked their advance
along the whole line.

Colonel Kirby led us, but I speak of Ranjoor Singh. I never once saw
Colonel Kirby until the fight was over and we were back again
resting our horses behind the trees while the roll was called.
Throughout the fight--and I have no idea whatever how long it
lasted--I kept an eye on Ranjoor Singh and spurred in his wake,
obeying the least motion of his saber. No, sahib, I myself did not
slay many men. It is the business of a non-commissioned man like me