"Yes,—the great fever. A matter of many weeks, and sore trouble of mind; for disease takes strong hold upon the strong. And what will come to the squadron, with both my troop commanders laid in their beds?"
"Na,—na, Hazúr. I will arise, even as I am——"
"That you will not, Sirdar Sahib," Desmond interposed with kindly decision; "we will rather give Bishan Singh a chance to prove that he is fit for promotion. I have had the assurance from him many times in words. Now I will have it in deeds—the fittest language for a soldier."
The deep-set eyes gleamed approval.
"Great is the wisdom of the Captain Sahib, understanding the deceitfulness of man's heart. Bishan Singh's tongue is as a horse without bit or bridle. If head and hand carry him as far, he will do well."
"True talk," Desmond answered, smiling. Then with the incurable diffidence of the Englishman when he is moved to do a gracious action, he held out his parcel. "See here, Rajinder Singh. This is a small matter enough for your acceptance. A token merely that—I do not forget."
"Hazúr!"
The eagerness of a child transfigured the man's weatherbeaten face, and his fingers plucked unsteadily at the string.
Desmond took out a knife and slit it without a word.