They had begotten "Pukka" Cunningham, who had hacked the name deeper yet in the crisscrossed annals of a land of war.

It was strange--it was queer--uncanny--for the third of the Cunninghams to be sitting on the stone.

It was unexpected, yet it seemed to have a place in the scheme of things, for he caught himself searching his memory backward.
He received an impression that something was expected of him.

He knew, by instinct and reasoning he could not have explained, that neither Mahommed Gunga nor the other men would say a word until he spoke.

They were waiting--he knew they were--for a word, or a sign, or an order (he did not know which), on which would hang the future of all three of them.
Yet there was no hurry--no earthly hurry.