Desmond laid a hand on the man's shoulder.
"No need of thanks," said he. "This fine fellow hath already thanked me in his own rough fashion, clapping me on the shoulder,—forgetful of his great strength,—because he had no power to say 'Shahbash!'"
The old Sikh shook his head slowly, a great tenderness in his eyes.
"Such is the gracious heart of the Captain Sahib, putting a good face even upon that which is evil. Permit, at least, that we make some manner of bandage till it be possible to find the Doctor Sahib."
It was permitted; and the useless arm having been strapped into place, Wyndham insisted upon his friend's departure; a fiat against which Desmond's impetuous protests were launched in vain. For, like many men of habitually gentle bearing, Paul Wyndham's firmness was apt to be singularly effective on the rare occasions when he thought it worth while to give proof of its existence.
"I'll ride back with you myself," he announced, in a tone of finality, "and go on to the Mess for Mackay afterwards. The worst is over now, and you'll only let yourself in for a demonstration if your men find out that any harm has come to you." The diplomatic suggestion had the desired effect; and they rode leisurely back to the bungalow, under a moon no longer robbed of its radiance.
Few words passed between them as they went; but on arriving at the squat, blue gate-posts Wyndham drew rein and spoke.
"Good-night, dear old chap. Take a stiff 'peg' the minute you get in. I'm in need of one myself."
"Sorry if I gave you a bit of a shock, old man," Desmond answered smiling, and rode at a foot's pace toward the house.