His eyes, betraying nothing but politeness, read the very depths of mine.
"Has the sahib credentials ?" he asked.

So I showed him the permit covered with signatures that was the one scrap of writing left in my possession after several searchings.
"Thank you," he said gravely.

"There were others who had no permits.
Will you walk with me through the camp ?" That was new annoyance, for with such a search as I had in mind what interest could there be in a camp for convalescent Sikhs?
Tents pitched at intervals--a hospital marquee--a row of trees under which some of the wounded might sit and dream the day through-these were all things one could imagine without journeying to India.

But there was nothing to do but accept, and I walked beside him, wishing I could stride with half his grace.
"There are no well men here," he told me.

"Even the heavy work about the camp is done by convalescents." "Then why are you here ?" I asked, not trying to conceal admiration for his strength and stature.
"I, too, am not yet quite recovered." "From what ?" I asked, impudent because I felt desperate.