They were playing 'Weel may the keel row!' the regimental march-past, as Colonel Starr's Midlanders did the last half mile to their camping-ground.

The boys were in the courtyard among the horses, and Sunni dropped the new silver bit he was looking at, held up his head, and listened.

He was the same yellow-haired, blue-eyed Sunni, considerably tanned by the fierce winds of Rajputana; but there came a brightness over his face as he listened, that had not been there since he was a very little boy.
'How beautiful the music is!' said he to Moti.
Moti put his fingers in his ears.
'It is horrible,' he cried.

'It screams and it rushes.

How can they be able to make it?
I shall tell my father to have it stopped.' Presently the bugles stopped of themselves, and Moti forgot about them, but the brightness did not go out of Sunni's face, and all day long he went about humming the air of 'Weel may the keel row,' with such variations as might be expected.