“Better bring candles, waiter,” said the Colonel.—“One likes to see what one is eating, boys;” and as a few minutes later the waiter placed a tall branch with its four wax candles in the centre of the table, the Colonel nodded to Singh. “There,” he said, “now we can all play fair, and you can see my scars.”
“Yes,” said Singh, looking at the Colonel fixedly. “There’s the big one quite plain that father used to tell me about.”
“Indeed!” said the Colonel sharply. “Why, what did he tell you about it, and when?”
“Oh, it was when I was quite a little fellow,” replied Singh. “He said it was in a great fight when three of the rajahs had joined against him to attack him and kill him, and take all his land. He said that there was a dreadful fight, and there were so many of his enemies that he was being beaten.”
“Oh—ah—yes,” said the Colonel. “Your father and I had a great many fights with his enemies when the Company sent me to help him with a battery of horse artillery, and to drill his men.”
“Was that, father, when you drilled and formed your regiment of cavalry?”
“Yes, boy, yes. But never mind the fighting now. That was in the old days. Go on with your dinner.”
But Singh did not seem to heed his words, for he was sitting gazing straight before him at the scar on his host’s forehead; and laying down his knife and fork he continued, in a rapt, dreamy way, “And he said he thought his last hour had come, for he and the few men who were retreating with him had placed their backs against a steep piece of cliff, and they were fighting for their lives, surrounded by hundreds of the enemy.”
“My dear boy, you are letting your dinner get cold,” said the Colonel, in a petulant way.
“Yes,” continued Singh, “and it was all just like a story out of a book. I used to ask father to tell it to me, and when I did he used to smile and make me kneel down before him with my hands on his knees.”