The General’s face cleared wonderfully. “Why, so they ought! There are times when no man who is a man ought to keep his temper. And I am proud to say that on occasions like that I have never failed—yes, I think I may say I have never failed—to lose mine.”
Eveleen fought with a wild desire to laugh. “True for you, I’m sure, Sir Harry—most thoroughly. W-will we gallop now?” she welcomed almost hysterically a broad stretch of smooth sand in front, for the General had glanced round suspiciously, and she was afraid of disgracing herself for ever. But when Bajazet broke into a canter, Selima was naturally not disposed to be left behind, and they swept forward grandly, with the escort clinking and clanking after. When they slowed down a little, to mount the steep rise of a sandhill, which stretched right and left, as far as eye could see, like the face of a breaking wave, Eveleen glanced at Sir Harry. He was certainly more cheerful, but not yet his benign self, and without allowing him a moment’s breathing-space she urged another canter the instant they reached the crest of the sand-wave, and never stopped till the ground began to rise for the next. Then Sir Harry checked Selima and laughed.
“There, that will do! The seven devils are gone,” he chuckled, and Eveleen, a little breathless, laughed back at him. Her eyes were shining blue, her hair, crisped by the desert wind, stood out like wires under the heavy gauze veil thrown back over her straw hat. She looked about seventeen, and Sir Harry felt older than ever in comparison with her. He spoke abruptly.
“And now, if you please, we’ll take things easy for a bit. What with you young people egging the old fellow on, we seem to have got the escort strung out over a mile or so of desert.”
“I wonder might I suggest we go back and pick ’em up, General?” suggested Brian, rather anxiously. “If there were any of the Khans’ Arabits about here—or the wild tribes either—you would be something like a prize for them—and with a lady in charge——”
“Quite so. Though I think you and I could put up a fairly good fight while Mrs Ambrose got away. My little friend the Street Arab has a pretty turn of speed. But it would be an ignominious ending to a fit of—no, ma’am, not temper—a fit of righteous indignation such as I hope will ever seize me, or any of our family, at the sight of cruelty or injustice.”
“And why wouldn’t it, Sir Harry?” asked Eveleen boldly. “I’m sure that same righteous indignation has got me into trouble often enough. Would it be the way the people here treat the women made you angry?”
“No, ma’am. It was the way our own people treat their wounded. I rode out this morning to meet the force coming—we mustn’t say retreating—from Ethiopia. A part of the rearguard came into camp while I was there, and I saw the poor fellows taken from their camels and pitched down on the sand like dogs. I promise you the officers concerned got a bit of my mind. Queen’s or Company’s, they are all the same—shamefully negligent of their men. A bad set they are, a bad set—and see if I don’t treat ’em badly in their turn!”
“Ah, but not all bad?” entreated Eveleen, as he laughed ferociously. “And sure they’ll improve, now you have the teaching of them, Sir Harry.”
“Will they, indeed? Then what d’ye say to what I found when I got back? In spite of all my orders against reckless riding in the bazar, a wretched half-caste clerk goes careering along, won’t pull up for anybody, knocks down one of our own sepoys, a fine young fellow as ever I saw—regularly rides over him. Poor chap goes to hospital, and his murderer gets my sentiments—and something more.”