We Gave A Gasp Of Recognition And Galloped Into And Through The
Neutral Camp.
Natives of India in great turbans, Indian women in gay
shawls and nose-rings, and black Kaffirs in discarded khaki looked up
at us dully from the earth floors of their huts, and when we shouted
"Which way?" and "Where is the bridge?" only stared, or pointed
vaguely, still staring.
After all, we thought, they are poor creatures, incapable of emotion.
Perhaps they do not know how glad we are that they have been rescued.
They do not understand that we want to shake hands with everybody and
offer our congratulations. Wait until we meet our own people, we
said, they will understand! It was such a pleasant prospect that we
whipped the unhappy ponies into greater bursts of speed, not because
they needed it, but because we were too excited and impatient to sit
motionless.
In our haste we lost our way among innumerable little trees; we
disagreed as to which one of the many cross-trails led home to the
bridge. We slipped out of our stirrups to drag the ponies over one
steep place, and to haul them up another, and at last the right road
lay before us, and a hundred yards ahead a short iron bridge and a
Gordon Highlander waited to welcome us, to receive our first
greetings and an assorted collection of cigarettes. Hartland was
riding a thoroughbred polo pony and passed the gallant defender of
Ladysmith without a kind look or word, but Blackwood and I galloped
up more decorously, smiling at him with good-will.
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