The general stood as still on his square foot of floor as did Ranjoor
Singh on his. It was the fact that he did not flinch and did not strut
about, but stood in one spot with his arms behind him that confirmed
Ranjoor Singh in his reading of the general's eye.
"You may leave the house, then, and take your trooper. I accept your promise. Before you go, though, I'll tell you something. The ordering of troops for the front—for France—is in my hands. Your regiment is slated for to-morrow. But it can't go unless you'll see this through. The whole regiment will be needed, instead, to mount guard over Delhi."
"The regiment is to go, sahib, and my squadron, and—and I not? I am not to go?"
"That is the sacrifice you are asked to make!"
"Have I made no sacrifices for the Raj? How has my life been spent?
Sahib——"
The Sikh's voice broke and he ceased speaking, but the general, too, seemed at a loss for words.
"Sahib—do I understand? If I do this—this rat-business, whatever it is—Colonel Kirby and the regiment go, and another leads my squadron? And unless I do this, whatever it is, the regiment will not go?"
The general nodded. He felt and looked ashamed.
"Has war been declared, sahib?"
"Yes. Germany has invaded Belgium."