



Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.










THE WINDS OF THE WORLD

By TALBOT MUNDY




THE WINDS OF THE WORLD


  Ever the Winds of the World fare forth
    (Oh, listen ye! Ah, listen ye!),
  East and West, and South and North,
  Shuttles weaving back and forth
    Amid the warp! (Oh, listen ye!)
  Can sightless touch--can vision keen
  Hunt where the Winds of the World have been
  And searching, learn what rumors mean?
    (Nay, ye who are wise! Nay, listen ye!)
  When tracks are crossed and scent is stale,
  'Tis fools who shout--the fast who fail!
    But wise men harken-Listen ye!

YASMINI'S SONG.




CHAPTER I


A watery July sun was hurrying toward a Punjab sky-line, as if weary of
squandering his strength on men who did not mind, and resentful of the
unexplainable--a rainy-weather field-day. The cold steel and khaki of
native Indian cavalry at attention gleamed motionless between British
infantry and two batteries of horse artillery. The only noticeable
sound was the voice of a general officer, that rose and fell explaining
and asserting pride in his command, but saying nothing as to the why of
exercises in the mud. Nor did he mention why the censorship was in full
force. He did not say a word of Germany, or Belgium.

In front of the third squadron from the right, Risaldar-Major Ranjoor
Singh sat his charger like a big bronze statue. He would have stooped
to see his right spur better, that shone in spite of mud, for though he
has been a man these five-and-twenty years, Ranjoor Singh has neither
lost his boyhood love of such things, nor intends to; he has been
accused of wearing solid silver spurs in bed. But it hurt him to bend
much, after a day's hard exercise on a horse such as he rode.

Once--in a rock-strewn gully where the whistling Himalayan wind was
Acting Antiseptic-of-the-Day--a young surgeon had taken hurried
stitches over Ranjoor Singh's ribs without probing deep enough for an
Afghan bullet; that bullet burned after a long day in the saddle. And
Bagh was--as the big brute's name implied--a tiger of a horse,
unweakened even by monsoon weather, and his habit was to spring with
terrific suddenness when his rider moved on him.

So Ranjoor Singh sat still. He was willing to eat agony at any time for
the squadron's sake--for a squadron of Outram's Own is a unity to
marvel at, or envy; and its leader a man to be forgiven spurs a
half-inch longer than the regulation. As a soldier, however, he was
careful of himself when occasion offered.

Sikh-soldier-wise, he preferred Bagh to all other horses in the world,
because it had needed persuasion, much stroking of a black beard--to
hide anxiety--and many a secret night-ride--to sweat the brute's
savagery--before the colonel-sahib could be made to see his virtues as
a charger and accept him into the regiment. Sikh-wise, he loved all
things that expressed in any way his own unconquerable fire. Most of
all, however, he loved the squadron; there was no woman, nor anything
between him and D Squadron; but Bagh came next.

Spurs were not needed when the general ceased speaking, and the British
colonel of Outram's Own shouted an order. Bagh, brute energy beneath
hand-polished hair and plastered dirt, sprang like a loosed
Hell-tantrum, and his rider's lips drew tight over clenched teeth as he
mastered self, agony and horse in one man's effort. Fight how he would,
heel, tooth and eye all flashing, Bagh was forced to hold his rightful
place in front of the squadron, precisely the right distance behind the
last supernumerary of the squadron next in front.

Line after rippling line, all Sikhs of the true Sikh baptism except for
the eight of their officers who were European, Outram's Own swept down
a living avenue of British troops; and neither gunners nor infantry
could see one flaw in them, although picking flaws in native regiments
is almost part of the British army officer's religion.

To the blare of military music, through a bog of their own mixing, the
Sikhs trotted for a mile, then drew into a walk, to bring the horses
into barracks cool enough for watering.

They reached stables as the sun dipped under the near-by acacia trees,
and while the black-bearded troopers scraped and rubbed the mud from
weary horses, Ban