"And how is your 'family'?"

"She is well, Sahib."

"And how like you this War?"

"Greatly, Sahib. The _Goora-log_[2] and ourselves fight like brothers
side by side. But we would fain see the fine weather. Then there will be
some _muzza_[3] in it."

The Field-Marshal smiled and passed on.

They entered the great ward in the main hold of the ship. Here were
avenues of swinging cots, in double tiers, the enamelled iron white as
snow, and on the pillow of each cot lay a dark head, save where some
were sitting up--the Sikhs binding their hair as they fingered the
_kangha_ and the _chakar_, the comb and the quoit-shaped hair-ring,
which are of the five symbols of their freemasonry. The Field-Marshal
stopped to talk to a big _sowar_. As he did so the men in their cots
raised their heads and a sudden whisper ran round the ward. Dogras,
Rajputs, Jats, Baluchis, Garhwalis clutched at the little pulleys over
their cots, pulled themselves up with painful efforts, and saluted. In a
distant corner a Mahratta from the aboriginal plains of the Deccan, his
features dark almost to blackness, looked on uncomprehendingly; Ghurkhas
stared in silence, their broad Mongolian faces betraying little of the
agitation that held them in its spell. From the rest there arose such a
conflict of tongues as has not been heard since the Day of Pentecost.
From bed to bed passed the magic words, "It is he." Every man uttered a
benediction. Many wept tears of joy. A single thought seemed to animate
them, and they voiced it in many tongues.