For a long moment Rajinder Singh gazed upon the miracle before him in silent wonder. To the unsophisticated native—and there are happily many left in India—a photograph remains an abiding miracle; a fact to be accepted and reverenced without explanation, like the inconsistencies of the gods.
"In very truth, it is the Captain Sahib himself!" he muttered with the air of one who makes an amazing discovery. Then, grasping his possession in both hands, he held it out at arm's length, examining every detail with loving care; glancing from the counterfeit to the original as if to satisfy himself that the artist had omitted nothing; for Desmond was wearing the undress uniform of the picture.
"Bahut, bahut salaam, [22] Sahib!" he broke out in a tremulous fervour of gratitude. "It is your Honour's self, as I said, lacking only speech. Feature for feature—cord for cord. All things are faithfully set down. Behold, even these marks upon the scabbard,—the very scar upon your Honour's hand! Now, indeed, hath God favoured me beyond deserving; for my Captain Sahib abideth under this my roof until I die."
Rising unsteadily, in defiance of Desmond's mute protest, he removed the cherished looking-glass, hung the photo in its place, and, drawing himself up to his full six-feet-two of height, gravely saluted it.
"Salaam, hamara, [23] Captain Sahib Bahadur!"
Then he turned to find Desmond, who had risen also, watching him intently, his full heart in his eyes.
"I thought it would give you pleasure," he said, in a tone of restrained feeling, "but I had no knowledge that it would please you as much as that. I am very glad I thought of it. But now," he added more briskly, "enough of talk. There waiteth more work to be done than a man can accomplish before dark. Get you back to bed, Ressaldar Sahib, and stay there until I order otherwise."
Once outside, he sprang to the saddle, and set off at a canter through the withering, stupefying sunlight towards Captain Olliver's bungalow.