They kept us at the rear, and took away our horses--took even our spurs, making us drill with unaccustomed weapons.

And I think that the beginning of the new distrust of Ranjoor Singh was in resentment at his patience with the bayonet drill.

We soldiers are like women, sahib, ever resentful of the new--aye, like women in more ways than one; for whom we have loved best we hate most when the change comes.
Once, at least a squadron of us had loved Ranjoor Singh to the death.

He was a Sikh of Sikhs.

It had been our boast that fire could not burn his courage nor love corrupt him, and I was still of that mind; but not so the others.