The Prince encouraged me by his voice, and pushed constantly forward. His gun, which a soldier behind him reloaded as fast as it was discharged, was never silent, and his aim was so sure that he never missed. The Enemy's ranks crumbled before us. And Alemguir, full of ardour urged me on and on! He desired to reach the Maharajah of Mysore, who in the centre of his army directed the battle.
At last he found him, shouted defiance at him, and defied him to meet him in single combat.
The Maharajah smiled scornfully and did not answer.
All at once my Mahout, who, being occupied with guiding me, and less carried away by the fury of the battle, had a better opportunity of observing the situation, cried out in a voice of horror, "Back!—Back!—or you are lost!"
But the Prince continued to shout "Forward!" And my Mahout could jab my ear as much as he chose—I refused to obey!
"Prince! Prince! You are lost!" groaned the unhappy slave. "The army of Golconda is in retreat, and we are surrounded! It is too late to escape!"
A ball struck him. With a groan he rolled off my neck, clinging an instant, deluging me with blood, then he fell.
Dead. He was dead!
I stopped, horrified; turning the body gently over with the tip of my trunk—he did not move; he did not breathe; it was the end.
My poor Mahout had breathed his last so quickly—almost without pain. This then, was what "Fate" had in store for him!