He waved his tail with dignity and trotted
in content.
Hard by the Ajmere Gate they halted, for some bullock carts had
claimed their centuries-long prerogative of getting in the way. While
the bullocks, to much tail-twisting and objurgation, labored in the
mud in every direction but the right one, Colonel Kirby sat his
charger almost underneath the gate, waiting patiently. Then the
advance-guard clattered off and he led along.
He never knew where it came from and he never tried to guess. He
caught it instinctively, and kept it for the sake of chivalry, or
perhaps because she had made him think for a moment of his mother. At
all events, the bunch of jasmine flowers that fell into his lap found
a warm berth under his buttoned tunic, and he rode on through the
great gate with a kinder thought for Yasmini than probably she would
guess.
With that resentment gone, he could ride now as suited him, with all
his thoughts ahead, and there lacked then only one thing to complete
his pleasure--he missed Ranjoor Singh.
It was not that the squadron would lack good leading. An English
officer had taken Ranjoor Singh's place. It was the man he missed--
the decent loyal gentleman who had worked untiringly to sweat a
squadron into shape to Kirby's liking and never once presumed, nor
had taken offense at criticism--the man who had been good enough to
understand the ethics of an alien colonel, and to translate them for
the benefit of his command.
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