“Yes. You will know the danger if ever you have to take your men across a ford.”
A couple of days later we were anchored in the great stream in front of the city of palaces, and I was gazing with eyes full of wonder and eagerness at the noble buildings, the great flights of steps leading down to the water, the constant procession of people to and fro, with huge elephants gaily caparisoned and bearing temple-like howdahs, some filled with Europeans, more often with turbaned chiefs or people of importance. The white garments and turbans of the natives gave a light and varied look in the bright sunshine, while amongst them were the carriages of the English residents, the handsome horses of officers, and the gay uniforms of the English and native troops, from whose weapons the dazzling sunshine flashed.
“Yes; plenty of the military element,” said Captain Brace, pointing out different figures in the busy scene. “Take my glass,” he continued. “That’s a sepoy regiment. You can see their dark faces.”
“Yes, I see,” I cried eagerly.
“Do you see those two mounted men in white, with lances?”
“Yes; who are they?”
“Sowars of the native cavalry; and that little half troop behind—you can tell what they are?”
“They look like English hussars,” I said.
“Right. Part of the eighth, I should say. They are stationed here.”
“But they are not the East India Company’s men.”