But he rode on at his ease. Ahead of him lay that which he considered
duty. He could feel the long-kept peace of India disintegrating all
around him, and he knew--he was certain--as sometimes a brave man
can see what cleverer men all overlook--that the right touch by the
right man at the right moment, when the last taut-held thread should
break, would very likely swing the balance in favor of peace again,
instead of individual self seeking anarchy.

He knew what "Cunnigan-bahadur" would have done. He swore by
Cunnigan-bahadur. And the memory of that same dead, desperately honest
Cunningham he swore that no personal profit or convenience or safety
should be allowed to stand between him and what was honorable and
right! Mahommed Gunga had no secrets from himself; nor lack of
imagination. He knew that he was riding--not to preserve the peace
of India, for that was as good as gone--but to make possible the
winning back of it. And he rode with a smile on his thin lips, as the
crusaders once rode on a less self-advertising errand.



CHAPTER IV


"You have failed!" whispered Fate, and a weary civilian
Threw up his task as a matter of course.
"Failed?" said the soldier. He knew a million
Chances untackled yet. "Get me a horse!"

THAT was a strange ride of Mahommed Gunga's, and a fateful one--more
full of portent for the British Raj in India than he, or the British,