"What ails him?"
"He has fever."
"Then I will come and see him in one moment." With these words the Lieutenant threw down his cards, and invited me to accompany him to the tent wherein the patient was lying.
Maun Singh Sipahee was a powerful Brahmin, who stood upwards of six feet two. He was a native of Oude, and had a very dark skin. When we entered the tent, he attempted to rise from the charpai (native bedstead) on which he was reclining; but the Lieutenant told him to be still, then felt the sick man's pulse, and placed his small white hand across the broad black forehead of the soldier.
"Carry him into my tent. The ground is too damp for him here," said the Lieutenant; and forthwith the bedstead was raised by half-a-dozen of the man's comrades. In the tent medicine was administered—a small quantity of tartar emetic dissolved in water, and given in very small doses, until nausea was produced, and a gentle perspiration stood upon the skin of the patient.
"You are all right, now, Maun Singh," said the Lieutenant.
"No, Sahib, I am dying. Nothing can save me."
"Then you know better than I do?"
"Forgive me, Sahib."