"War! Hear him, brothers! Talk is talk, but there will be no war until India grows too fat to breathe--unless the past be remembered and we make one for ourselves!" * * * * * There was silence for a while, if a change of sounds is silence. The Delhi mud sticks as tight as any, and the kneading of it from out of horsehair taxes most of a trooper's energy and full attention. Then, the East being the East in all things, a solitary trooper picked up the scent and gave tongue, as a true hound guides the pack. "Who is _she_?" he wondered, loud enough for fifty men to hear. From out of a cloud of horse-dust, where a stable helper on probation combed a tangled tail, came one word of swift enlightenment. "Yasmini!" "Ah-h-h-h!" In a second the whole squadron was by the ears, and the stable-helper was the center of an interest he had not bargained for. "Nay, sahibs, I but followed him, and how should I know? Nay, then I did not follow him! It so happened. I took that road, and he stepped out of a _tikka-gharri_ at her door. Am I blind? Do I not know her door? Does not everybody know it? Who am I that I should know why he goes again? But--does a moth fly only once to the lamp-flame? Does a drunkard drink but once? By the Guru, nay! May my tongue parch in my throat if I said he is a drunkard! I said--I meant to say--seeing she is Yasmini, and he having been to see her once--and being again in a great hurry--whither goes he?" So the squadron chose a sub-committee of inquiry, seven strong, that being a lucky number the wide world over, and the movements of the risaldar-major were reported one by one to the squadron with the infinite exactness of small detail that seems so useless to all save Easterns. Fifteen minutes after he had left his quarters, no longer in khaki uniform, but dressed as a Sikh gentleman, the whole squadron knew the color of his undershirt, also that he had hired a _tikka-gharri_, and that his only weapon was the ornamental dagger that a true Sikh wears twisted in his hair. One after one, five other men reported him nearly all the way through Delhi, through the Chandni Chowk--where the last man but one nearly lost him in the evening crowd--to the narrow place where, with a bend in the street to either hand, is Yasmini's. The last man watched him through Yasmini's outer door and up the lower stairs before hurrying back to the squadron. And a little later on, being almost as inquisitive as they were careful for their major, the squadron delegated other men, in mufti, to watch for him at the foot of Yasmini's stairs, or as near to the foot as might be, and see him safely home again if they had to fight all Asia on the way. These men had some money with them, and weapons hidden underneath their clothes; for, having betted largely on the quail-fight at Abdul's stables, the squadron was in funds.