In Isaacs' tent I was pulling off my turban, all shapeless and crumpled by the long day, while Isaacs stood disconsolately looking at the clean guns and unbroken rows of cartridges which Narain deposited on the table.

The sun was very low, and shone horizontally through the raised door of the tent on my friend's rather gloomy face.

At that moment something intercepted the sunshine, and a dark shadow fell across the floor.

I looked, and saw a native standing on the threshold, salaaming and waiting to be spoken to.

He was not one of our men, but a common ryot, clad simply in a _dhoti_ or waist-cloth, and a rather dirty turban.
"Kya chahte ho ?"--"What do you want ?" asked Isaacs impatiently.