The M. F. H. bowed stiffly as Hole-in-the-Ground’s offer was made known to him. He regarded them a moment in thought. A vague light was breaking in upon him. “Aw, thank you,” he said, “thanks awfully. Smith, take the fox. Good afternoon!”
Then he wheeled his horse, called the hounds in with his horn and trotted out to the road that led to the kennels. Lord Ploversdale, though he had never been out of England, was cast in a large mold.
The three Indians sat on their panting horses, motionless, stolidly facing the curious gaze of the crowd; or rather they looked through the crowd, as the lion with the high breeding of the desert looks through and beyond the faces that stare and gape before the bars of his cage.
“Most amazing! Most amazing!” muttered the Major.
“It is,” said Mr. Carteret, “if you have never been away from this.” He made a sweeping gesture over the restricted English scenery, pampered and brought up by hand.
“Been away from this?” repeated the Major. “I don’t understand.”
Mr. Carteret turned to him. How could he explain it?
“With us,” he began, laying an emphasis on the “us.” Then he stopped. “Look into their eyes,” he said hopelessly.
The Major looked at him blankly. How could he, Major Hammerslea of “The Blues,” tell what those inexplicable dark eyes saw beyond the fenced tillage! What did he know of the brown, bare, illimitable range under the noonday sun, the evening light on far, silent mountains, the starlit desert!