The old Mussulman burst into a scornful laugh. "Best not chatter thus to me, Gurdit! _Inshallah_; there have been times when honest blows with a good sword have brought the faithful many a Hindu _peri!_ But I quarrel not, so go your way, fools, like sheep to slaughter if so your wisdom teaches. I bide at home." "Nay but, Khân _sahib_," expostulated that very Peru with whom Shunker had begun his work, "we go not to, or for slaughter. We mean to petition first to Marsden _sahib_, who comes to-day; so the Pathan hath given out." "What!" interrupted the Khân with a frown. "He hath returned! Then go ye doubly to slaughter, for there is one who dallies not with words. He knows how to smite, and if it comes to blows I know which side good swords--But there! I bide at home." Nor, despite their urgent importunities, would he consent even to join those who favoured a petition. No doubt the racial disinclination to be mixed up with idolaters had something to do with the refusal; beyond this there was a stronger desire to give no help to Shunker; and stronger than all was that liking for sheer pluck which makes a native regiment, recruited from the martial races and led by Englishmen it trusts, well nigh the perfection of a warlike weapon. Many records bear witness to this fact, none more so than the story of Ahmad Kheyl, when, but for an Englishman's voice and the steady response of Indian soldiers, the tale might have been writ "disaster" instead of "victory." Perhaps some of the three thousand Ghazies who on that day dashed like an avalanche down the hill-side on to the thin brown line guarding a mistaken retreat of red-coats may have expected colour to side with colour. If so they paid dearly for their error. It is pluck with pluck; and the words "_Retreat be damned--stand fast, men!_" attributed rightly or wrongly to an Englishman not mentioned in despatches, were sufficient to weld two nationalities into a wall which broke the force of one of the most desperate charges ever made. At least so runs the story,--out of despatches. Khân Mahomed Lateef Khân, then, retreated growling to his tumbledown roof, and betook himself inconsequently to polishing up his sword. Half an hour afterwards, however, he suddenly bade old Fâtma bring him his company raiment with the medals and clasps of his dead sons sewn on it. Then he said a brief farewell to the child, left the women without a word, and went over to borrow the pink-nosed pony of the pleader's father, who, being the Government accountant, was of course discreetly at home. "Why didst not make thy son take up the case without payment?" asked the old man wrathfully, as his neighbour held the stirrup for him to mount. "Then should I not have had to go in mine old age and strive for peace,--mark you, for peace!" But as he rode off, the old sword clattered merrily about his old legs, and he smiled, thinking of the gift given when the light of his eyes lay sick in the _mem's_ arms.