They clustered
round the Risaldar in silence, and he looked them over and counted them.
"All here?" he asked.
"All here!"
"Whose sons and grandsons are ye?"
"Thine!" came the chorus.
"This sahib says that having done my bidding and delivered her ye
rode to rescue, ye are no more bound to the Raj. Ye may return to
your homes if ye wish."
There was no answer.
"Ye may fight for the rebels, if ye wish! There will be a safe-permit
written."
Again there was no answer.
"For whom, then, fight ye?"
"For the Raj!" The deep-throated answer rang out promptly from every
one of them, and they stood with their sword-hilts thrust out toward
the colonel. He rose and touched each hilt in turn.
"They are now thy servants!" said the Risaldar, laying his head back.
"It is good! I go now. Give my salaams to General Turner sahib!"
"Good-by, old war-dog!" growled the colonel, in an Anglo-Saxon effort
to disguise emotion. He gripped at the right hand that was stretched
out on the ground beside him, but it was lifeless.
Risaldar Mahommed Khan, two-medal man and pensionless gentleman-at-large,
had gone to turn in his account of how he had remembered the salt
which he had eaten.
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