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"Has war been declared, sahib?" "Yes. Germany has invaded Belgium." For a second the Sikh's eyes blazed, but the fire died down again. He clasped his hands in front of him and hung his head. "I will do this thing that I am asked to do," he said; but his words were scarcely audible. His trooper came a step closer, to be nearer to him in his minute of acutest agony. "Thou and I, Jagut Singh!
Dumb misery was stamped on the Sikh's face, the despair of evaporated savagery on the Afridi's. "Jagut Singh!" said the risaldar-major, louder this time; and the trooper looked up, almost as if hope had been that instant born in him. "Jagut Singh!" The trooper grinned. A white row of ivory showed between his black beard and mustache.
Alwa considered that his inviolable hospitality should be too well known and understood to call for any explanation or expression; he would have considered it an insult to the Sikh's intelligence to have mouthed a welcome; he let it go for granted. "Jaidev Singh galloper to Byng-bahadur. I bring a letter for the Risaldar Mahommed Gunga, or for Cunnigan-sahib, whichever I can find first."
When will the bees swarm?" The German eyed him keenly, but the Sikh's eyes did not flinch. "What is your rank?" the German asked. "Squadron leader!" "Oh!" The two stood up, and now there was no mistake about the German's heels; they clicked. The two were almost of a height, although the Sikh's head dress made him seem the taller.
He could hear their voices on the bank and, occasionally, a shot was fired over his head. He felt sure, however, that he was still unseen; and determined to float quietly, till the course of the current changed, and brought him back to the side from which he started. He felt the Sikh's grasp relaxing, and threw his arms round the man's neck.
Narayan Singh had jumped from the car behind and seized Feisul, thrown him to the floor out of the path of bullets, and tied his arms. It was actually Mabel, hardly realizing what she was doing but obeying the Sikh's orders yelled in her ear as he struggled to keep his wiry prisoner down, who tied the king's feet, using her Arab girdle.
They were both unusually fine looking men, and limb for limb they matched. "If war were in Europe you would be taken there to fight," said the German. Ranjoor Singh showed no surprise. "Whether you wanted to fight or not." There was no hint of laughter in the Sikh's brown eyes. "Germany has no quarrel with the Sikhs." "I have heard of none," said Ranjoor Singh.
Squatting in loose-flowing robes, princely bred, and almost saintly with his beautiful gray beard, the patriarch looked frail enough to be squashed under the Sikh's enormous thumb. But he wasn't much impressed. "God give thee good sense, Sikh!" was the prompt answer.
"Peace!" I said. "Peace!" remembering the Sikh's counsel about the middle course I should pursue. "The Lion is sick. May Allah take pity on him!" Narayan Singh growled in his beard by way of submitting to the mild rebuke, and Ali Higg a little bit impressed perhaps proceeded to question me on doctrine and theology, showing a zeal for splitting hairs that would have done credit to a Cairo m'allim.
Five minutes later the Sikh's horse thundered out across the plain from under Alwa's iron gate, and the news, such as it was, was on its way to Byng-bahadur. "A clear road at the price of a horse-hide rope!" laughed Alwa. "Now for some real man's work!"
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