In after years the young fellow used to deny strenuously that it had been the opium either. Plainly and palpably he had been cured of his fever "by faith." And as for Dhurm Singh? What the doctor said was true; he could not be spared as yet. How could he be spared when even now from the verandah came a woman's voice, soft, confident--
"Dhurm Singh, Sonny baba."
"Huzoor! dhurm nâl."
And any one looking out might have seen a very old man, gorgeous in scarlet raiment, decked with golden lace and golden curls, as a child's head nestled up against a solitary arm, and a child's fingers played with the solitary medal, or tugged unavailingly at the hilt of the old sword.
"The Huzoor is too young," would come the broad, arrogant voice, "but he will learn--he will learn. Even a Sikh is made, not born. He must wait till the years bring the Sacred Steel. Let the Huzoor rest awhile peacefully, and old Dhurm will sing to him."
Then there would be a surreptitious swallowing of a pill before the drowsy chant began.
"He is of the Khâlsa[[17]]
Who combats in the van,
Who gives in charity,
Who loves the Poor.
He is of the Khâlsa
Whose mind is set on God,
Who never fears though often overcome,
Knowing all men created of one God.
He is of the Khâlsa
Who lives in arms,
Who combats with the wrong,
Who keeps--the--faith--"