Ted asked their names. Govind Singh was the elder, named after the last of the Sikh high-priests; Hira Singh the younger. He told them who he was, and that they must set out for Jalandar that night; and they looked him up and down with doubtful eyes, evidently not too favourably impressed by his youthful appearance. Ted found himself somewhat afraid of those eyes; they seemed to hold so much in reserve. But he felt that in a tight place he would be glad to be backed by men with eyes like theirs.
“When will you be ready?” he asked.
“Now,” said Govind Singh.
“Then we set out after sundown.”
“Very good, sahib! We go to Lucknow to help Henry Larens.”
“But he is dead,” Ted informed him.
Govind Singh shook his head.
“That is a poorbeah lie,” said he. “As if those jackals of Oudh could kill the great chief!”
Astounded by the Sikh’s incredulity, Ted asked if he had seen Sir Henry Lawrence.
“I? I knew him well, and so did Hira Singh, my brother. When the English fought the Afghans, nearly twenty years ago, we were at Peshawur in the Sikh army under Avitabile. The Sikh government had granted you Feringhis a passage through the Punjab, but we Sikh soldiers preferred our old enemies the Afghans, and we refused to fight on your side. We were ready to eat up your Khyber column in those days, and would have done it too, but for Henry Larens Sahib, who won our hearts, so that we fought for him, aye, even to Kabul. Then when we challenged you to war six years later and were beaten, he ruled the Punjab justly and with righteous dealing, as his brother does to-day. Jan Larens is a good and great man likewise, but Henry we loved most. We knew him well.”