I thanked heaven that she was not an American, but I devoutly wished that for half a day—no more—I might have been her husband.
Far away across the Champs de Mars from behind the fort had come at last the guns announcing that the Viceroy had arrived at Delhi. Hardly had the salute died away than the booming of the cannon came again for the arrival of the Duke of Connaught.
A sudden hush of expectation fell upon all the crowd. All eyes were turned towards the ramparts of the Fort across the Champs de Mars beyond the group of elephants, where, away on the far left the great procession must at last emerge. Slowly, almost imperceptibly it came, the first advancing line of cavalry sweeping onwards like some dazzling serpent in the glorious midday sun. Yet another salute, and the flag over the Fort fluttered into place. The Viceroy had arrived opposite the Lahore Gate, and a quiver of excitement passed through the vast crowds as the long period of expectation drew near its close. And then at last the procession wheeled into the long straight Khas Road, down which we faced from our vantage-point on the terrace of the Jumma Musjid.
It was a never-to-be-forgotten sight. Riding first, alone, came one officer; then, behind him, smart and finished, as only British cavalry can be, came the Dragoon Guards. I forgave all the guardsmen I had ever met their swagger as I watched those perfect ranks march by. Who wouldn't swagger to be in authority over such men as they? To see them turn and wheel and march obedient to one's slightest
