In the centre, covered by a roof like a temple-dome in miniature, was the ice-cold spring, whose existence made the fort tenable.

Under the veranda, on a long, low lounge, was a sight that arrested his attention--held him spell-bound--drew him, tingling in a way he could not have explained--drew him--drew him, slow-footed, awkward, red--across the courtyard.
He heard Mahommed Gunga swear aloud; he recognized the wording of the belly-growled Rangar oath; but it did not occur to him that what he saw--what was drawing him--could be connected with it.

He looked straight ahead and walked ahead--reached the edge of the veranda--took his helmet off--and stood still, feeling like an idiot, with the sun full on his head.
"I'd advise you to step into the shade," said a voice that laughed more sweetly than the chuckling spring.

"I don't know who you are, but I'm more glad to see you than I ever was in my life to see anybody.

I can't get up, because I'm too stiff; the ride to here from Howrah City all but killed me, and I'm only here still because I couldn't ride another yard.
My father will be out in a moment.