"Fighting."
I winced, for his manner suggested that he had been successful, and I
knew what that meant.
"Don't look like that," he said kindly. "You are a soldier, and know
that only one side can win. You and yours have carried all before you
for many years; it is our turn now."
"But only for a little while," I said quietly. "You must be beaten in
the end."
"Indeed!" he said, frowning, but turning it off with a laugh. "Oh no;
we carry everything before us now, and we shall be free once more."
My brows knit, and I tried to say something, but only words which I felt
would anger him seemed to come to my lips, and after watching me, he
smiled.
"You do not agree with me, of course?" he said. "How could you? But
you did not tell me if there was anything you wanted," he continued
pleasantly.
I looked in his eyes, then my own wandered over him and his dress; and
as he sat there by my pillow, looking every inch an Eastern king, the
scene once more suggested some passage out of the "Arabian Nights," and
there was an unreality about it that closed my lips.
Just then my eyes rested upon the beautiful tulwar that he had drawn
across his knees when he sat down. It was a magnificent weapon, such as
a cunning Indian or Persian cutler and jeweller would devote months of
his life in making; for the hilt was of richly chased silver inlaid with
gold, while costly jewels were set wherever a place could be found, and
the golden sheath was completely encrusted with pearls. It must have
been worth a little fortune; and, while my eyes rested upon the gorgeous
weapon, he smiled, and drew it nearly from the sheath, when I could see
the beautifully damascened and inlaid blade, upon which there was an
inscription in Sanscrit characters.
"There is no better nor truer steel," he said, turning it over, so that
I could see the other side of the blade. "Get strength back in your
arm, and you could kill an enemy with that at a blow. You like it?"
"It is magnificent."
He quickly unfastened the splendid belt, twisted it round the weapon,
and held it to me.
"It is yours, then," he said. "You are weak from your wound, but you
are still a soldier at heart. I give it gladly to my dear friend."
"No, no," I cried excitedly, surprised now at the strength of my voice,
as startled by the richness of the gift, and ashamed that he should
think I wanted it, I thrust it back, and he frowned.
"You refuse it?" he said. "Is it not enough?"
"You do not understand me," I said. "I could not take such a rich
present."
"Not from your friend?" he cried, interrupting me.
"Well, yes, if he had thought of giving it to me," I said; "but you
fancied I wanted it, and I did not. It was not that; it was something
else."
"Ah," he cried eagerly, "something else. Well, ask. I am very rich; I
am a prince now, not your brother-officer's syce. Tell me, and it is
yours."