CHAPTER XXVIII
Ye may go and lay your praise
At a shrine of other days
By the tomb of him who gat, and her who bore me;
My plan is good—my way—
The sons of kings obey—
But, I'm reaping where another sowed before me.
JAIDEV SINGH was a five-K man, with the hair, breeches, bangle, comb, and dagger that betoken him who has sworn the vow of Khanda ka Pahul. Every item of the Sikh ritual was devised with no other motive than to preserve the fighting character of the organization. The very name Singh means lion. The Sikh's long hair with the iron ring hidden underneath is meant as a protection against sword-cuts. And because their faith is rather spiritual than fanatical—based rather on the cause of things than on material effect—men of that creed take first rank among fighting men.
Jaidev Singh arrived soon after the moon had risen. The notice of his coming was the steady drumming footfall of his horse, that slowed occasionally, and responded to the spur again immediately.
Close to the big iron gate below Alwa's eyrie there were some of Jaimihr's cavalry nosing about among the trampled gardens for the dead and wounded they had left there earlier in the afternoon. They ceased searching, and formed up to intercept whoever it might be who rode in such a hurry. Above them, on the overhanging ramparts, there was quick discussion, and one man left his post hurriedly.
“A horseman from the West!” he announced, breaking in on Alwa's privacy without ceremony.
“One?”
“One only.”
“For us or them?”