spoke, very slowly, "Where is _our_ horse?"

There is no saying what happened after that. There is but one horse in
the White Hussars, and his portrait hangs outside the door of the mess
room. He is the piebald drum-horse the king of the regimental band,
that served the regiment for seven-and-thirty years, and in the end
was shot for old age. Half the mess tore the thing down from its place
and thrust it into the man's hands. He placed it above the
mantelpiece; it clattered on the ledge, as his poor hands dropped it,
and he staggered toward the bottom of the table, falling into
Mildred's chair. The band began to play the "River of Years" waltz,
and the laughter from the gardens came into the tobacco-scented mess
room. But nobody, even the youngest, was thinking of waltzes. They all
spoke to one another something after this fashion: "The drum-horse
hasn't hung over the mantelpiece since '67." "How does he know?"
"Mildred, go and speak to him again." "Colonel, what are you going to
do?" "Oh, dry up, and give the poor devil a chance to pull himself
together!" "It isn't possible, anyhow. The man's a lunatic."

Little Mildred stood at the colonel's side talking into his ear. "Will
you be good enough to take your seats, please, gentlemen?" he said,
and the mess dropped into the chairs.

Only Dirkovitch's seat, next to Little Mildred's, was blank, and
Little Mildred himself had found Hira Singh's place. The wide-eyed
mess sergeant filled the glasses in dead silence. Once more the
colonel rose, but his hand shook, and the port spilled on the table as
he looked straight at the man in Little Mildred's chair and said,
hoarsely, "Mr. Vice, the Queen." There was a little pause, but the man
sprang to his feet and answered, without hesitation, "The Queen, God
bless her!" and as he emptied the thin glass he snapped the shank
between his fingers.

Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young woman, and
there were no unclean ideals in the land, it was the custom in a few
messes to drink the Queen's toast in broken glass, to the huge delight
of the mess contractors. The custom is now dead, because there is
nothing to break anything for, except now and again the word of a
government, and that has been broken already.

"That settles it," said the colonel, with a gasp. "He's not a
sergeant. What in the world is he?"

The entire mess echoed the word, and the volley of questions would
have scared any man. Small wonder that