for the squadron's sake--for a squadron of Outram's Own is a unity to
marvel at, or envy; and its leader a man to be forgiven spurs a half-inch
longer than the regulation. As a soldier, however, he was careful
of himself when occasion offered.

Sikh-soldier-wise, he preferred Bagh to all other horses in the
world, because it had needed persuasion, much stroking of a black
beard--to hide anxiety--and many a secret night-ride--to sweat the
brute's savagery--before the colonel-sahib could be made to see his
virtues as a charger and accept him into the regiment. Sikh-wise, he
loved all things that expressed in any way his own unconquerable
fire. Most of all, however, he loved the squadron; there was no
woman, nor anything between him and D Squadron; but Bagh came next.

Spurs were not needed when the general ceased speaking, and the
British colonel of Outram's Own shouted an order. Bagh, brute energy
beneath hand-polished hair and plastered dirt, sprang like a loosed
Hell-tantrum, and his rider's lips drew tight over clenched teeth as
he mastered self, agony and horse in one man's effort. Fight how he
would, heel, tooth and eye all flashing, Bagh was forced to hold his
rightful place in front of the squadron, precisely the right distance
behind the last supernumerary of the squadron next in front.

Line after rippling line, all Sikhs of the true Sikh baptism except
for the eight of their officers who were European, Outram's Own swept
down a living avenue of British troops; and neither gunners nor
infantry could see one flaw in them, although picking flaws in native
regiments is almost part of the British army officer's religion.

To the blare of military music, through a bog of their own mixing,