the corps had
their quarters. Two British officers happened to cross the parade-ground
as Sherdil was showing Ahmed round. Sherdil saluted.

"That is Lumsden Sahib," he said--"the tall one. The other is Bellew
Sahib, the hakim. Hai! his powders are terrible: they bite the tongue,
and make, as it were, an earthquake in one's inside."

And then he went on to describe an ailment from which he had recently
suffered, and Dr. Bellew's drastic treatment. But Ahmed only half
listened: he was more interested in Lumsden Sahib, the commander of this
corps of Guides. He saw a tall, athletic figure, surmounted by a fine
head--much handsomer than Jan Larrens, he thought, almost as handsome as
Rahmut Khan. Ahmed was struck with a sudden fancy: allowing for
differences of dress, Rahmut must in his young manhood have borne a
striking resemblance to this Feringhi. Harry Burnett Lumsden was at this
time thirty-five years of age. He had come to India at the age of
seventeen, with a cadetship in the Company's service, and while still a
lieutenant, at the age of twenty-five, had been ordered by Sir Henry
Lawrence to raise the corps of Guides, which he had commanded ever since
except for a brief period when Lieutenant Hodson held the command. His
rank was now that of captain, with a brevet majority.

Sherdil was so taken up with his task of showman that he did not at once
ask Ahmed's purpose in visiting him. But when he learnt what had
happened at Shagpur since the capture of the chief, he cried--

"Wah! Ahmed-ji, I will get leave and go and kill that dog Dilasah. It
cannot be yet, alas! for I have already had my leave for this year. But
Dilasah shall die, and you shall be chief; by my beard, it shall be so."

"I do not want to be chief, Sherdil," said Ahmed; then, brought face to
face with his thoughts, "I want to join the Guides--if I lose no caste
by it."

"Hush! do not speak of caste. We are all high caste--we Guides."

"But you, Sherdil?"

"Hush! no one knows. Lumsden Sahib will only take men of good caste. I
had to lie: lying is an honest man's wings, you know. Hai! you will lose
no caste. We are all good men. But you are young, Ahmed, and there are
many waiting. Those outside the walls: you saw them: they have encamped
there to wait until there is room for them. And they are good men--some
of the finest brigands of the hills, and sons of chiefs among them. I
fear me you are too young. There are thirty waiting, and they live out