'When we entered the Temple, the coffin itself was as a shoal in the Ravi River, splitting the stream into two branches, one on either side of the Dead; and the watchers of the Dead, who were soldiers, stood about It, moving no more than the still flame of the candles. Their heads were bowed; their hands were clasped; their eyes were cast upon the ground--thus. They were not men, but images, and the multitude went past them in fours by day, and, except for a little while, by night also. 'No, there was no order that the people should come to pay respect. It was a free-will pilgrimage. Eight kings had been commanded to come--who obeyed--but upon his own Sahibs the new King laid no commandment. Of themselves they came. 'I made pilgrimage twice: once for my Salt's sake, and once again for wonder and terror and worship. But my mouth cannot declare one thing of a hundred thousand things in this matter. There were _lakhs_ of _lakhs_, _crores_ of _crores_ of people. I saw them.' 'More than at our great pilgrimages?' the Regimental Chaplain demanded. 'Yes. Those are only cities and districts coming out to pray. This was the world walking in grief. And now, hear you! It is the King's custom that four swords of Our Armies in Hind should stand always before the Presence in case of need.' 'The King's custom, our right,' said the Subadar-Major curtly. 'Also our right. These honoured ones are changed after certain months or years, that the honour may be fairly spread. Now it chanced that when the old King--the Queen's son--completed his days, the four that stood in the Presence were Goorkhas. Neither Sikhs alas, nor Pathans, Rajputs, nor Jats. Goorkhas, my father.' 'Idolaters,' said the Chaplain. 'But soldiers; for I remember in the Tirah--' the Havildar-Major began. '_But_ soldiers, for I remember fifteen campaigns. Go on,' said the Subadar-Major. 'And it was their honour and right to furnish one who should stand in the Presence by day and by night till It went out to burial. There were no more than four all told--four old men to furnish that guard.' 'Old? Old? What talk is this of old men?' said the Subadar-Major. 'Nay. My fault! Your pardon!' The Havildar-Major spread a deprecating hand. 'They were strong, hot, valiant men, and the youngest was a lad of forty-five.' 'That is better,' the Subadar-Major laughed. 'But for all their strength and heat they could not eat strange food from the Sahibs' hands. There was no cooking place in the Temple; but a certain Colonel Forsyth Sahib, who had understanding, made arrangement whereby they should receive at least a little caste-clean parched grain; also cold rice maybe, and water which was pure. Yet, at best, this was no more than a hen's mouthful, snatched as each came off his guard. They lived on grain and were thankful, as the saying is.