the grounding of a butt on gravel and now and then a cough announced
others beyond him again.

"I have permission," I said, "to find a certain Risaldar-major
Ranjoor Singh, and to ask him questions."

He smiled. His eyes, betraying nothing but politeness, read the very
depths of mine.

"Has the sahib credentials?" he asked. So I showed him the permit
covered with signatures that was the one scrap of writing left in my
possession after several searchings.

"Thank you," he said gravely. "There were others who had no permits.
Will you walk with me through the camp?"

That was new annoyance, for with such a search as I had in mind what
interest could there be in a camp for convalescent Sikhs? Tents
pitched at intervals--a hospital marquee--a row of trees under which
some of the wounded might sit and dream the day through-these were
all things one could imagine without journeying to India. But there
was nothing to do but accept, and I walked beside him, wishing I
could stride with half his grace.

"There are no well men here," he told me. "Even the heavy work about
the camp is done by convalescents."

"Then why are you here?" I asked, not trying to conceal admiration
for his strength and stature.