So he drifted, talking bad English and worse French, from
one city to another, till he foregathered with Her Majesty's White
Hussars in the city of Peshawur, which stands at the mouth of that
narrow swordcut in the hills that men call the Khyber Pass. He was
undoubtedly an officer, and he was decorated after the manner of
the Russians with little enamelled crosses, and he could talk, and
(though this has nothing to do with his merits) he had been given
up as a hopeless task, or cask, by the Black Tyrone, who
individually and collectively, with hot whiskey and honey, mulled
brandy, and mixed spirits of every kind, had striven in all
hospitality to make him drunk. And when the Black Tyrone, who are
exclusively Irish, fail to disturb the peace of head of a
foreigner - that foreigner is certain to be a superior man.
The White Hussars were as conscientious in choosing their wine as
in charging the enemy. All that they possessed, including some
wondrous brandy, was placed at the absolute disposition of
Dirkovitch, and he enjoyed himself hugely - even more than among
the Black Tyrones.
But he remained distressingly European through it all. The White
Hussars were "My dear true friends," "Fellow-soldiers glorious,"
and "Brothers inseparable.
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