There is no blessing in this work." In those days I rode seventy miles with an English Memsahib and her babe on my saddle-bow.
(Wow! That was a horse fit for a man!) I placed them in safety, and back came I to my officer--the one that was not killed of our five.
"Give me work," said I, "for I am an outcast among my own kind, and my cousin's blood is wet on my sabre." "Be content," said he.

"There is great work forward.

When this madness is over there is a recompense."' 'Ay, there is a recompense when the madness is over, surely ?' the lama muttered half to himself.
'They did not hang medals in those days on all who by accident had heard a gun fired.

No! In nineteen pitched battles was I; in six-and-forty skirmishes of horse; and in small affairs without number.
Nine wounds I bear; a medal and four clasps and the medal of an Order, for my captains, who are now generals, remembered me when the Kaisar-i-Hind had accomplished fifty years of her reign, and all the land rejoiced.

They said: "Give him the Order of Berittish India." I carry it upon my neck now.