“Has the sahib credentials?” he asked.  So I showed him the permit covered with signatures that was the one scrap of writing left in my possession after several searchings.

“Thank you,” he said gravely.  “There were others who had no permits.  Will you walk with me through the camp?”

That was new annoyance, for with such a search as I had in mind what interest could there be in a camp for convalescent Sikhs?  Tents pitched at intervals—­a hospital marquee—­a row of trees under which some of the wounded might sit and dream the day through-these were all things one could imagine without journeying to India.  But there was nothing to do but accept, and I walked beside him, wishing I could stride with half his grace.

“There are no well men here,” he told me.  “Even the heavy work about the camp is done by convalescents.”

“Then why are you here?” I asked, not trying to conceal admiration for his strength and stature.

“I, too, am not yet quite recovered.”

“From what?” I asked, impudent because I felt desperate.  But I drew no fire.

“I do not know the English name for my complaint,” he said. (But he spoke English better than I, he having mastered it, whereas I was only born to its careless use.)

“How long do you expect to remain on the sick list?” I asked, because a woman once told me that the way to make a man talk is to seem to be interested in himself.

“Who knows?” said he.

He showed me about the camp, and we came to a stand at last under the branches of an enormous mango tree.  Early though it was, a Sikh non-commissioned officer was already sitting propped against the trunk with his bandaged feet stretched out in front of him—­a peculiar attitude for a Sikh.

“That one knows English,” my guide said, nodding.  And making me a most profound salaam, he added:  “Why not talk with him?  I have duties.  I must go.”

The officer turned away, and I paid him the courtesy due from one man to another.  It shall always be a satisfying memory that I raised my hat to him and that he saluted me.

“What is that officer’s name?” I asked, and the man on the ground seemed astonished that I did not know.

“Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh bahadur!” he said.

For a second I was possessed by the notion of running after him, until I recalled that he had known my purpose from the first and that therefore his purpose must have been deliberate.  Obviously, I would better pursue the opportunity that in his own way He had given me.

“What is your name?” I asked the man on the ground.

“Hira Singh,” he answered, and at that I sat down beside him.  For I had also heard of Hira Singh.

He made quite a fuss at first because, he said, the dusty earth beneath a tree was no place for a sahib.  But suddenly he jumped to the conclusion I must be American, and ceased at once to be troubled about my dignity.  On the other hand, he grew perceptibly less distant.  Not more friendly, perhaps, but less guarded.