Our British officers said nothing, doubtless not suspecting the distrust; for it was a byword that Ranjoor Singh held the honor of the squadron in his hand.

Yet of all the squadron only the officers and I now trusted him--the Sikh officers because they imitated the British; the British because faith is a habit with them, once pledged, and I--God knows.

There were hours when I did distrust him--black hours, best forgotten.
The war settled down into a siege of trenches, and soon we were given a section of a trench to hold.

Little by little we grew wise at the business of tossing explosives over blind banks--we, who would rather have been at it with the lance and saber.

Yet, can a die fall which side up it will?
Nay, not if it be honest! We were there to help.