“On thine own honor, sahib?”
“On my word of honor!”
“The promise is enough! Will you inspect them, sahib?”
“I'll take their salute first,” said Cunningham.
“Pardon, bahadur!”
Alwa filled his lungs and faced the unseen lines.
“Rangars!” he roared. “Your leader! To Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur—son of Pukka-Cunnigan whom we all knew—general—salute—present—sabres!”
There was sudden movement—the ring of whipped-out metal—a bird's wing-beat—as fifteen hundred hilts rose all together to as many lips—and a sharp intake of breath all down the line.
It wasn't bad. Not bad at all, thought Cunningham. It was not done as regulars would have worked it. There was the little matter of the lances, that he could make out dimly here and there, and he could detect even in that gloom that half of the men had been caught wondering how to salute with lance and sabre both. But that was not their fault; the effort—the respect behind the effort—the desire to act altogether—were all there and striving. He drew his own mare back a little, and returned their salute with full military dignity.
“Reeeecee—turn—sabres!” ordered Alwa, and that movement was accomplished better.