But the pardonable pride of a young and gallant soldier soon yielded an inexplicable sensation of humility when he was brought before a small, slender, erect man, gray-haired, eagle-nosed, with strangely bright and piercing eyes, and a mouth habitually set in a thin, straight line. This was Sir Henry Havelock, and Frank felt instantly that he was in the presence of one who lived in a world apart from his fellows. And, in truth, Havelock would have been better understood by Cromwell's Ironsides than by his own generation. He was outside the ordinary run of mankind. Though aware of a natural timidity, he fought with and conquered it until his soldiers refused to believe that Havelock knew what fear was. Conscious of his own military genius he had borne without comment or complaint a constant supersession by inferiors, and in an age when levity of thought and manners among officers was often looked upon as the hall-mark of distinguished social position, he lost no opportunity of giving his men religious instruction, while every act of his life was governed by a stern sense of duty. Such was the man who listened to Malcolm's account of the proceedings which led up to the disastrous battle of Chinhut. "You say you rode straight from the field on the evening of the 30th," said he, when Frank had delivered his message of Lucknow's plight. "How did you travel, and in what state did you find the country you traversed?" Then Frank told him all that had taken place. More than once the young officer would have cut short the recital, but this Havelock would not permit. His son was present, that younger Havelock who lived for forty years to keep ever in the public memory a glorious name, and often the father would turn towards him and punctuate Malcolm's tale with a nod, or a brief, "Do you hear that, Harry?" At last, the stirring chronicle was ended. "Do you wish to remain here and recuperate, or will you join my staff, with the rank of Major?" asked Havelock. Malcolm was hardly able to stammer his acceptance of the appointment thus offered, but the General had no time for useless talk. "About this servant of yours--he seems to have the making of a soldier in him--will he care to retain the rank he has assumed so creditably?" he went on. Frank rather lost his breath at this suggestion, but he had the presence of mind to refer the decision to Chumru himself. "Kubbi nahin, general-sahib,"[20] was the Mohammedan's emphatic disclaimer of the honor proposed to be conferred on him. "I am a good bearer, huzoor, but I should prove a very bad rissaldar. I am not of a fighting caste. I am a man of peace." [Footnote 20: Literally: "Never no general!"] "I think you are mistaken," said Havelock, quietly, "but by all means continue to serve your master. I am sure he is worthy of your devotion. And now, Major Malcolm, if you will report yourself to General Neill, he will provide you with quarters and plenty of work." CHAPTER XIII THE MEN WHO WORE SKIRTS