At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, for a thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the dark forest with none to look after him.  So all that night he chased through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears.  He went down to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used to wash him, but there was no answer.  He could not find Deesa, but he disturbed all the elephants in the lines, and nearly frightened to death some gypsies in the woods.

At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation.  He had been very drunk indeed, and he expected to fall into trouble for outstaying his leave.  He drew a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still uninjured; for he knew something of Moti Guj’s temper; and reported himself with many lies and salaams.  Moti Guj had gone to his pickets for breakfast.  His night exercise had made him hungry.

‘Call up your beast,’ said the planter, and Deesa shouted in the mysterious elephant-language, that some mahouts believe came from China at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters.  Moti Guj heard and came.  Elephants do not gallop.  They move from spots at varying rates of speed.  If an elephant wished to catch an express train he could not gallop, but he could catch the train.  Thus Moti Guj was at the planter’s door almost before Chihun noticed that he had left his pickets.  He fell into Deesa’s arms trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to heel to see that no harm had befallen.

‘Now we will get to work,’ said Deesa.  ‘Lift me up, my son and my joy.’

Moti Guj swung him up and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look for irksome stumps.

The planter was too astonished to be very angry.

L’ENVOI

My new-cut ashlar takes the light
  Where crimson-blank the windows flare;
By my own work, before the night,
 Great Overseer, I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought,
  Thy hand compelled it, Master, Thine;
Where I have failed to meet Thy thought
  I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.

One instant’s toil to Thee denied
  Stands all Eternity’s offence,
Of that I did with Thee to guide
  To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,
  Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,
Godlike to muse o’er his own trade
  And Manlike stand with God again.

The depth and dream of my desire,
  The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
  Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

One stone the more swings to her place
  In that dread Temple of Thy Worth—­
It is enough that through Thy grace
  I saw naught common on Thy earth.