It was nearly evening when Akbar came to me, and said that Ulysses was showing decided symptoms of becoming “must.” I went out with the intention of taking the book away from him, but stopped several yards away, struck by his changed appearance. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, his ears erect, his legs spread apart. He was beating his sides with his trunk, and at times trumpeting in low, bass tones. When he saw us approach he seized the book from the rack and dashed it at me with all his force.
“Ulysses,” I said, “keep calm.”
“Look out!” cried Akbar; “he is ‘must.’ Beware!”
With a terrific roar Ulysses turned, and sprang in great, ponderous leaps out of the garden. Briggs, who was in his path, dropped his rake and flung himself into some bushes.
“After him, Akbar!” I cried; “see where he goes.”
Ulysses ran toward a clump of woods, which grew over a knoll a short distance away. Into this he plunged, and was soon out of sight. We could hear the limbs crash as he tore away into the thick foliage. Akbar followed cautiously. The direction which Ulysses had taken caused a suspicion of possible calamity to dawn on my mind, and I waited uneasily for the mahout’s return. It was not long before Akbar emerged from the woods and ran toward me.
“Praise be to our fathers, he is dead!” he shouted. Akbar had come to fear and hate Ulysses.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“May the hyenas eat my grandfather!” said he, solemnly. “You, who know only the truth, remember the rocky bank beyond the hill, which slopes off to destruction? Your servant, Ulysses, rushed thither and flung himself down, bursting his head against the stones. I myself saw him there, lying motionless and dead.”