We, whose oath to murder him still trembled on our lips, stood and faced him with trembling knees now that he had come at last.
We stood before him like two rows of dumb men, gazing at his face.

I have heard the English say that our eastern faces are impossible to read, but that can only be because western eyes are blind.

We can read them readily enough.

Yet we could not read Ranjoor Singh's that day.

It dawned on us as we stared that we did not understand, but that he did; and there is no murder in that mood.
Before we could gather our wits he began to speak to us, and we listened as in the old days when at least a squadron of us had loved him to the very death.