A watery July sun was hurrying toward a Punjab sky-line, as if weary
of squandering his strength on men who did not mind, and resentful of
the unexplainable--a rainy-weather field-day. The cold steel and
khaki of native Indian cavalry at attention gleamed motionless
between British infantry and two batteries of horse artillery. The
only noticeable sound was the voice of a general officer, that rose
and fell explaining and asserting pride in his command, but saying
nothing as to the why of exercises in the mud. Nor did he mention why
the censorship was in full force. He did not say a word of Germany,
or Belgium.

In front of the third squadron from the right, Risaldar-Major
Ranjoor Singh sat his charger like a big bronze statue. He would have
stooped to see his right spur bettor, that shone in spite of mud, for
though he has been a man these five-and-twenty years, Ranjoor Singh
has neither lost his boyhood love of such things, nor intends to; he
has been accused of wearing solid silver spurs in bed. But it hurt
him to bend much, after a day's hard exercise on a horse such as he
rode.

Once--in a rock-strewn gully where the whistling Himalayan wind was
Acting Antiseptic-of-the-Day--a young surgeon had taken hurried
stitches over Ranjoor Singh's ribs without probing deep enough for an
Afghan bullet; that bullet burned after a long day in the saddle. And
Bagh was--as the big brute's name implied--a tiger of a horse,
unweakened even by monsoon weather, and his habit was to spring with
terrific suddenness when his rider moved on him.

So Ranjoor Singh sat still. He was willing to eat agony at any time