There was the little matter of the lances, that he could make out dimly here and there, and he could detect even in that gloom that half of the men had been caught wondering how to salute with lance and sabre both.

But that was not their fault; the effort--the respect behind the effort--the desire to act altogether--were all there and striving.

He drew his own mare back a little, and returned their salute with full military dignity.
"Reeeecee--turn--sabres!" ordered Alwa, and that movement was accomplished better.
He rode once, slowly, down the long front rank, letting each man look him over--then back again along the rear rank, risking a kick or two, for there was little room between them and the cliff.

He was not choking now.

The soldier instinct, that is born in a man like statesmanship or poetry, but that never can be taught, had full command over all his other senses, and when he spurred out to the front again his voice rang loud and clear, like a trumpet through the night.
With fifty ground scouts scattered out ahead of them, they drummed out of the gorge and thundered by squadrons on the plain beyond--straight, as the jackal runs, for Howrah City.