nothing, doubtless not suspecting the distrust; for it was a byword
that Ranjoor Singh held the honor of the squadron in his hand. Yet
of all the squadron only the officers and I now trusted him--the
Sikh officers because they imitated the British; the British because
faith is a habit with them, once pledged, and I--God knows. There
were hours when I did distrust him--black hours, best forgotten.

The war settled down into a siege of trenches, and soon we were
given a section of a trench to hold. Little by little we grew wise
at the business of tossing explosives over blind banks--we, who
would rather have been at it with the lance and saber. Yet, can a
die fall which side up it will? Nay, not if it be honest! We were
there to help. We who had carried coal could shovel mud, and as time
went on we grumbled less.

But time hung heavy, and curiosity regarding Ranjoor Singh led from
one conjecture to another. At last Gooja Singh asked Captain
Fellowes, and he said that Ranjoor Singh had stayed behind to expose
a German plot--that having done so, he had hurried after us. That
explanation ought to have satisfied every one, and I think it did
for a time. But who could hide from such a man as Ranjoor Singh that
the squadron's faith in him was gone? That knowledge made him
savage. How should we know that he had been forbidden to tell us
what had kept him? When he set aside his pride and made us
overtures, there was no response; so his heart hardened in him.
Secrecy is good. Secrecy is better than all the lame explanations in
the world. But in this war there has been too much secrecy in the
wrong place. They should have let him line us up and tell us his
whole story. But later, when perhaps he might have done it, either
his pride was too great or his sense of obedience too tightly spun.