"You are a Mohammedan?" The Scotsman peered at him, adjusting his
viewpoint to the moon's rays. "I see you are. A Rajput, too, I think."

"Ha, sahib."

"There was a Rangar here not very long ago." This man evidently knew
the proper title to give a he true believer of the proudest race there
is. Ali Partab's heart began to go out to him--"an officer, I think,
once of the Rajput Horse, who very kindly carried letters for me.
Perhaps you know of some other gentleman of your race about to travel
northward? He could earn, at least, gratitude."

"So-ho!" thought Ali Partab to himself. "I have known men of his race
who would have offered money, to be spat on!--Not now, sahib," he
answered aloud.

"Mahommed Gunga was the officer's name. Do you know him, or know of
him, by any chance?"

"Ha, sahib, I know him well. It is an honor."

The Scotsman smiled. "He must be very far away by this time. How
many are there, I wonder, in India who have such things said of them
when their backs are turned?"

"More than a few, sahib! I would draw steel for the good name of more
than a hundred men whom I know, and there be many others!"

"Men of your own race?"