feet in his hurry and nearly falling just as he reached us, so that
for the moment I thought he too had been shot. Besides Colonel
Kirby, who was dying in my arms, he, and Captain Fellowes, and one
other risaldar were our only remaining officers. Colonel Kirby was
in great pain, so that his words were not in his usual voice but
forced through clenched teeth, and Ranjoor Singh had to stoop to
listen.

"Shepherd 'em!" said Colonel Kirby. "Shepherd 'em, Ranjoor Singh!"
My ear was close and I heard each word. "A bad business. They did
not know enough to listen to you at Headquarters. Don't waste time
blaming anybody. Pray for wisdom, and fear nothing! You're in
command now. Take over. Shepherd 'em! Good-by, old friend!"

"Good-by, Colonel sahib," said Ranjoor Singh, and Kirby sahib died
in that moment, having shed the half of his blood over me. Ranjoor
Singh and I laid him along a ledge above the water and it was not
very long before a chance shell dropped near and buried him under a
ton of earth. Yes, sahib, a British shell.

Presently Ranjoor Singh waded along the trench to have word with
Captain Fellowes, who was wounded rather badly. I made busy with the
men about me, making them stand where they could see best with least
risk of exposure and ordering spade work here and there. It is a
strange thing, sahib, but I have never seen it otherwise, that spade
work--which is surely the most important thing--is the last thing
troopers will attend to unless compelled. They will comb their
beards, and decorate the trench with colored stones and draw names
in the mud, but the all-important digging waits. Sikh and Gurkha and
British and French are all alike in that respect.