To his ear came at times the low cautious cry of some night-bird sailing
with heavy wing down to the haunt of mouse or mole; otherwise the night
was still as only mountain night-seasons are. Far down below him, the
jungle and forest were rustling with game and beasts of prey seeking
their meat from God, but the larger beasts of India, unlike their African
brethren, move in silence, stealthy yet courageous; and the distance was
too great for the quickly stifled cry of the victim of panther or tiger
to reach him.
When the moon rose he made the round of his pickets--a matter of ten
minutes--and then to bed.
On the morning of the ninth day he thought he detected signs of
uneasiness in the faces of the men. He found their keen little visages
ever turned towards him, watching his every movement, noting the play of
every feature. So in his simplicity he practised a simple diplomacy. He
hummed to himself as he went his rounds and while he sat over his diary.
He only knew one song--"A Warrior Bold"--which every mess in India
associated with old Jem Agar, for no evening was considered complete
without the Major's one ditty if he were present.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103