Just inside the door the major's Indian servant, tall, impassive
and turbaned, stood with folded arms, looking over our heads. And at
the table the placid faced peasant woman cut slices of yellow bread,
made with eggs and milk, and poured our coffee.
It was very good coffee, served black. The woman brought a small
decanter and placed it near me.
"It is rum," said the major, "and very good in coffee."
I declined the rum. The interpreter took a little. The major shook his
head.
"Although they say that a Sikh never refuses rum!" he said, smiling.
Coffee over, we walked about the village. Hardly a village--a cluster
of houses along unpaved lanes which were almost impassable. There were
tumbling stables full of horses, groups of Indians standing under
dripping eaves for shelter, sentries, here and there a peasant. The
houses were replicas of the one where Makand Singh had his quarters.
Although it was still raining, a dozen Indian Lancers were exercising
their horses. They dismounted and stood back to let us pass. Behind
them, as they stood, was the great Cross.
That was the final picture I had of the village of Ham and the Second
Lahore Lancers--the turbaned Indians with their dripping horses, the
grave bow of Makand Singh as he closed the door of the car, and behind
him a Scotch corporal in kilt and cap, with a cigarette tucked behind
his ear.
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