“What manner of life hast thou led, not to know The Year? A rumour indeed! All earth knew, and trembled!” “Our earth never shook but once—upon the day that the Excellent One received Enlightenment.” “Umph! I saw Delhi shake at least—and Delhi is the navel of the world.” “So they turned against women and children? That was a bad deed, for which the punishment cannot be avoided.” “Many strove to do so, but with very small profit. I was then in a regiment of cavalry. It broke. Of six hundred and eighty sabres stood fast to their salt—how many, think you? Three. Of whom I was one.” “The greater merit.” “Merit! We did not consider it merit in those days. My people, my friends, my brothers fell from me. They said: ‘The time of the English is accomplished. Let each strike out a little holding for himself.’ But I had talked with the men of Sobraon, of Chilianwallah, of Moodkee and Ferozeshah. I said: ‘Abide a little and the wind turns. There is no blessing in this work.’ In those days I rode seventy miles with an English Memsahib and her babe on my saddle-bow. (Wow! That was a horse fit for a man!) I placed them in safety, and back came I to my officer—the one that was not killed of our five. ‘Give me work,’ said I, ‘for I am an outcast among my own kind, and my cousin’s blood is wet on my sabre.’ ‘Be content,’ said he. ‘There is great work forward. When this madness is over there is a recompense.’” “Ay, there is a recompense when the madness is over, surely?” the lama muttered half to himself. “They did not hang medals in those days on all who by accident had heard a gun fired. No! In nineteen pitched battles was I; in six-and-forty skirmishes of horse; and in small affairs without number. Nine wounds I bear; a medal and four clasps and the medal of an Order, for my captains, who are now generals, remembered me when the Kaisar-i-Hind had accomplished fifty years of her reign, and all the land rejoiced. They said: ‘Give him the Order of Berittish India.’ I carry it upon my neck now. I have also my _jaghir_ (holding) from the hands of the State—a free gift to me and mine. The men of the old days—they are now Commissioners—come riding to me through the crops—high upon horses so that all the village sees—and we talk out the old skirmishes, one dead man’s name leading to another.” “And after?” said the lama. “Oh, afterwards they go away, but not before my village has seen.” “And at the last what wilt thou do?” “At the last I shall die.” “And after?”