"That is the Garter," replied the Subaltern; "the most honourable order in England."
"Really, and what is this that you are wearing?"
"I! Oh, that's the African medal. I was out there in '86 and '87, you know." As Savrola had anticipated, he was intensely pleased at being asked.
"It must have been a strange experience for you, who are so young."
"It was damned good fun," said the Subaltern with decision. "I was at Langi Tal. My squadron had a five-mile pursuit. The lance is a beautiful weapon. The English in India have a sport called pig-sticking; I have never tried it, but I know a better."
"Well, you may have another chance soon. We seem to be getting into difficulties with the British Government."
"Do you think there is any chance of war?" asked the boy eagerly.
"Well, of course," said Savrola, "a war would distract the attention of the people from internal agitation and the Reform movement. The President is a clever man. There might be war. I should not care to prophesy; but do you wish for it?"
"Certainly I do; it is my profession. I am sick of being a lap-dog in this palace; I long for the camp and the saddle again. Besides, these English will be worth fighting; they will give us a gallop all right. There was one of their officers with me at Langi Tal, a subaltern; he came as a spectator searching for adventure."
"What happened to him?"