It made us feel homesick, and some of the men were crooning love-songs.

The stars swung low, looking as if a man could almost reach them, and the smoke of our fires hung sweet on the night air.

I was listening to Abraham's tales about Turks--tales to make a man bite his beard--when Ranjoor Singh called me in a voice that carried far without making much noise.

(I have never known him to raise his voice so high or loud that it lost dignity.) "Hira Singh!" he called, and I answered "Ha, sahib!" and went clambering up the hill.
He let me stand three minutes, reading my eyes through the darkness, before he motioned me to sit.

So then we sat facing, I on one side of the fire and he the other.
"I have watched you, Hira Singh," he said at last.