A brave good daffadar is Chatar Singh, and now that all suspicion of our leader was weaned out of him, I could ask for no better comrade on a dark night.

Night did I say?
That was a night like death itself, when a man could scarcely see his own hand held thus before his face--cold and rainy to make matters worse.
We had two Kurds to show us the way, and, I suppose because our enemies had had enough of it, we were not fired on once, going or coming.

Our train of mules clattered and stumbled and our Syrians kept losing themselves and yelling to be found again.

Weary men and animals ever make more noise than fresh ones; frightened men more than either, and we were so dead weary by the time we got back that my horse fell under me by Ranjoor Singh's side.
Of all the nights I ever lived through, except those last we spent in the trench in Flanders before our surrender, that was the worst.
Hunger and cold and fear and weariness all wrought their worst with me; yet I had to set an example to the men.

My horse, as I have told, fell beside Ranjoor Singh; he dragged me to my feet, and I fell again, dizzy with misery and aching bones.