[my honour].'

'When we cross the Bias River again we will talk of _izzat_,' Scott
replied. 'Till that day thou and the policemen shall be sweepers to
the camp, if I give the order.'

'Thus, then, it is done,' grunted Faiz Ullah, 'if the Sahib will have
it so'; and he showed how a goat should be milked, while Scott stood
over him.

'Now we will feed them,' said Scott; 'thrice a day we will feed
them'; and he bowed his back to the milking, and took a horrible
cramp.

When you have to keep connection unbroken between a restless mother
of kids and a baby who is at the point of death, you suffer in all
your system. But the babies were fed. Morning, noon and evening Scott
would solemnly lift them out one by one from their nest of gunny-bags
under the cart-tilts. There were always many who could do no more
than breathe, and the milk was dropped into their toothless mouths
drop by drop, with due pauses when they choked. Each morning, too,
the goats were fed; and since they would struggle without a leader,
and since the natives were hirelings, Scott was forced to give up
riding, and pace slowly at the head of his flocks, accommodating
his step to their weaknesses. All this was sufficiently absurd, and
he felt the absurdity keenly; but at least he was saving life, and
when the women saw that their children did not die, they made shift
to eat a little of the strange foods, and crawled after the carts,
blessing the master of the goats.