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 Berengaria had lost the power of speech. All one's senses seemed to be merged into the sense of sight. One's only thought was to see, to miss nothing of this wonderful pageant that would live in history for all time, and that was so quickly passing by. Was there any figure in the whole procession prouder and more splendid than Sir Pertab Singh's? Sitting his black charger superbly, with all the highborn arrogance of the East, he rode at the head of his corps—the very flower of the youth of Imperial India, the princes and scions of the noblest families throughout the land. Their cream-white uniform, spotless, embroidered in gold, lit up by the perfect turquoise-blue of collar, cuffs, and cummerbund, wanted no better setting than their splendid black chargers with the famous snow leopard-skins that they carried so proudly. Triple chains of gold bound the inspiring motto of the corps 'For the King,' to their blue turbans, above which their golden aigrettes waved and nodded. Surely, in all the East, no prouder corps ever took service for any king. They seemed to sum up in one glittering array the pride of Hindusta—these proud scions of a noble race, beside whose pedigrees the longest and most honourable genealogy among the onlookers from the west was but a thing of yesterday. Truly, none but the first among Englishmen should be sent to govern such men as these. They passed, and behind them, lo, another and a greater wonder. In one long massive line came the great feature of the day—the elephant procession. First, two and two, the elephants bearing