They stood as one man, all gleaming eyes and gleaming teeth. They were all a good head taller than the Englishman who commanded them, but they looked upon him with reverence, as a being half divine.
"Now, cheer, you beggars, cheer!" he cried. "Three cheers for the King! Hip, hip—"
"Hooray!" came in hoarse chorus from the assembled troop. It sounded like a war cry.
"Hip, hip—" yelled the Englishman again.
And again "Hooray!" came the answering yell.
"Hip, hip—" for the third time from the man with the sword.
And for the third time, "Hooray!" from the deep-chested troopers halted in the blazing sunshine.
The British officer turned about with an odd smile quivering at the corners of his mouth. There was an almost maternal tenderness about it.
He sheathed his sword.
"You beauties!" he murmured softly. "You beauties!" Then aloud, "Very good, sergeant! Dismiss them! Come along, Monty! Let's go and have a drink."