seemed astonished that I did not know.

"Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh bahadur!" he said.

For a second I was possessed by the notion of running after him,
until I recalled that he had known my purpose from the first and
that therefore his purpose must have been deliberate. Obviously, I
would better pursue the opportunity that in his own way He had given
me.

"What is your name?" I asked the man on the ground.

"Hira Singh," he answered, and at that I sat down beside him. For I
had also heard of Hira Singh.

He made quite a fuss at first because, he said, the dusty earth
beneath a tree was no place for a sahib. But suddenly he jumped to
the conclusion I must be American, and ceased at once to be troubled
about my dignity. On the other hand, he grew perceptibly less
distant. Not more friendly, perhaps, but less guarded.

"You have talked with Sikhs in California?" he asked, and I nodded.

"Then you have heard lies, sahib. I know the burden of their song. A
bad Sikh and a bad Englishman alike resemble rock torn loose. The
greater the height from which they fall, the deeper they dive into
the mud. Which is the true Sikh, he who marched with us or he who
abuses us? Yet I am told that in America men believe what hired
Sikhs write for the German papers.