I rushed out; not a single man would follow.  The bodies of the elephants that we had killed still lay on the ground where they had fallen, about four hundred yards from the fort.  I descended calmly the hill, a very steep one, and coming to the spot, took my pick of the animals, choosing a tolerably small and plump one, of about thirteen feet high, which the vultures had respected.  I threw this animal over my shoulders, and made for the fort.

As I marched up the acclivity, whiz—­piff—­whir! came the balls over my head; and pitter-patter, pitter-patter! they fell on the body of the elephant like drops of rain.  The enemy were behind me; I knew it, and quickened my pace.  I heard the gallop of their horse:  they came nearer, nearer; I was within a hundred yards of the fort—­seventy—­fifty!  I strained every nerve; I panted with the superhuman exertion—­I ran—­could a man run very fast with such a tremendous weight on his shoulders?

Up came the enemy; fifty horsemen were shouting and screaming at my tail.  O heaven! five yards more—­one moment—­and I am saved!  It is done—­I strain the last strain—­I make the last step—­I fling forward my precious burden into the gate opened wide to receive me and it, and—­I fall!  The gate thunders to, and I am left on the outside!  Fifty knives are gleaming before my bloodshot eyes—­fifty black hands are at my throat, when a voice exclaims, “Stop!—­kill him not, it is Gujputi!” A film came over my eyes—­exhausted nature would bear no more.

CHAPTER IX.

Surprise of Futtyghur.

When I awoke from the trance into which I had fallen, I found myself in a bath, surrounded by innumerable black faces; and a Hindoo pothukoor (whence our word apothecary) feeling my pulse and looking at me with an air of sagacity.

“Where am I?” I exclaimed, looking round and examining the strange faces, and the strange apartment which met my view.  “Bekhusm!” said the apothecary.  “Silence!  Gahagan Sahib is in the hands of those who know his valor, and will save his life.”

“Know my valor, slave?  Of course you do,” said I; “but the fort—­the garrison—­the elephant—­Belinda, my love—­my darling—­Macgillicuddy—­the scoundrelly mutineers—­the deal bo—­ . . . .”

I could say no more; the painful recollections pressed so heavily upon my poor shattered mind and frame, that both failed once more.  I fainted again, and I know not how long I lay insensible.

Again, however, I came to my senses:  the pothukoor applied restoratives, and after a slumber of some hours I awoke, much refreshed.  I had no wound; my repeated swoons had been brought on (as indeed well they might) by my gigantic efforts in carrying the elephant up a steep hill a quarter of a mile in length.  Walking, the task is bad enough:  but running, it is the deuce; and I would recommend any of my readers who may be disposed to try and carry a dead elephant, never, on any account, to go a pace of more than five miles an hour.