The man brought a mug of water, which he set down on the table. Bob wondered why he did not himself hold it to the stranger's lips, until he guessed that caste was probably the obstacle. He himself gave the man drink, and looked at him with curiosity, which became recognition as he opened his eyes. It was Ganda Singh, the dafadar of the sowars who had accompanied Major Endicott on his mission months before.
"Salaam, sahib," said the man faintly, when he saw that Bob had recognized him.
"Feel better now?" said Bob.
Ganda Singh had closed his eyes again. Bob noticed that he was very pale and haggard, as one exhausted after a long march.
"Just get one of the Sikhs to prepare him some food, khansaman," he said. "I suppose you won't do it yourself?"
"He is a Sikh, sahib."
"Well, cut away to one of his own race, then. He's fit for nothing at present."
He considered whether he should wake Lawrence, but decided to let him sleep on until the man was able to explain his presence. He himself was absolutely unconscious of any feeling of fatigue. Ganda Singh's surprising appearance filled him with overmastering excitement.
Reviving after some hot lentil soup had been poured between his lips, the dafadar raised himself slightly from the couch on which he had been laid. Bob noticed a twinge of pain as he moved his arm.
"Wounded?" he said.