o' mine.
Thou askest faith? I send my sword.
There is no greater, friend o' mine.

RALPH CUNNINGHAM said good-by to Brigadier-General Byng (Byng the
Brigadier) with more feeling of regret and disappointment than he cared
to show. A born soldier, he did his hard-mouthed utmost to refrain
from whining; he even pretended that a political appointment was
a recognizable advance along the road to sure success--or, rather,
pretended that he thought it was; and the Brigadier, who knew men, and
particularly young men, detected instantly the telltale expression
of the honest gray eyes--analyzed it--and, to Cunningham's amazement,
approved the unwilling make-believe.

"Now, buck up, Cunningham!" he said, slapping him familiarly on the
shoulder. "You're making a good, game effort to hide chagrin, and you're
a good, game ass for your pains. There isn't one man in all India who
has half your luck at this minute, if you only knew it; but go ahead
and find out for yourself! Go to Abu and report, but waste no more time
there than you can help. Hurry on to Howrah, and once you're there, if
Mahommed Gunga tells you what looks like a lie, trust him to the hilt!"

"Is he coming with me, then?" asked Cunningham in some amazement.

"Yes--unofficially. He has relations in that neighborhood and wants to
visit them; he is going to take advantage of your pack-train and escort.
You'll have a small escort as far as Abu; after that you'll be expected
to look out for yourself. The escort is made up of details travelling
down-country; they'll leave you at Abu Road."

So, still unbelieving--still wondering why the Brigadier should go
to all that trouble to convince him that politics in a half-forgotten
native state were fair meat for a soldier--Cunningham rode off at the
head of a variously made-up travelling party, grudging every step of
that wonderful mare Mahommed Gunga had given him, that bore him away
from the breeze-swept north--away from the mist-draped hills he had
already learned to love--ever down, down, down into the hell-baked
plains.

Each rest-house where he spent a night was but another brooding-place
of discontent and regret, each little petty detail connected with the
command of the motley party (mainly time-expired men, homeward bound),
was drudgery; each Hindoo pugree that he met was but a beastly contrast,
or so it seemed to him, to the turbans of the troop that but a week ago
had thundered at his back.