The
evening of their landing saw them on their way to the front, Ranjoor
Singh in a first-class compartment, and his man in the horse-box.
Neither knew any French to speak of, but the French were very kind to
these dark-skinned gentlemen who were in so much hurry to help them
win the war.
It was dark--nearly pitch--dark at the journey's end. The moon shone
now and then through banks of black clouds, and showed long lines of
poplar trees. Beyond, in the distance, there was a zone in which
great flashes leaped and died--great savage streaks of fire of many
colors--and a thundering that did not cease at all.
Along the road that ran between the poplars two men sent their
horses at a rousing clip, though not so fast as to tax them to the
utmost. The man in front rode a brute that lacked little of seventeen
hands and that fought for the bit as if he would like to eat the far
horizon.
In the very, very dark zone, on the near side of where the splashes
of red fire fell, jingling bits and a kick now and then proclaimed
the presence of a regiment of cavalry. Nothing else betrayed them
until one was near enough to see the whites of men's eyes in the
dark, for they were native Indian cavalry, who know the last master-
touches of the art of being still.
Between them and the very, very dark zone--which was what the
Frenchmen call a forest, and some other nations call a stand of
timber--a little group of officers sat talking in low tones, eight
Englishmen and the others Sikhs.
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