Click! click! The cast-iron links of the big chain that bound him snapped, and Shere Bahadur was free. He cautiously moved his pillar-like legs backwards and forwards to satisfy himself of the fact, and then, with the broad fans of his ears spread out, stood for a moment still as a stone. High up amongst the leaves the green pigeons whistled softly to each other, and a grey squirrel was engaged in hot dispute with a blue jay over treasure-trove, found in a hollow of one of the long branches that, python-like, twined and twisted overhead. Far away, rose tier upon tier of purple hills, and beyond them a white line of snow-capped peaks stood out against the sapphire of the sky. Hathni Khund was there, the deep pool of the Jumna, where thirty years before Shere Bahadur had splashed and swam. It was there that he fought and defeated the hoary tusker of the herd, the one-tusked giant who had bullied and tyrannized over his tribe for time beyond Shere Bahadur's memory.
Perhaps a thought of that big fight stirred him, perhaps the breeze brought him the sweet scent of the young grass in the glens. At any rate, with a quick, impatient flap of his ears, Shere Bahadur turned and faced the hills. As he did so his twinkling red eyes caught sight of the Kalesar state troops on their parade ground, barely a quarter of a mile from where he stood. The fat little Maharaj was there, standing near the saluting point. Close to him was the Vizier, with the court, and, last but not least, a knowing little fox-terrier dug up the earth with his forepaws, scattering it about regardless of the august presence.
The Maharaj was proud of his troops. He had raised them himself in an outburst of loyalty, the day after a birthday gazette in which His Highness Sri Ranabir Pertab Sing, Maharaj Adhiraj of Kalesar, had been admitted a companion of an exalted order. The Star of India glittered on the podgy little prince. He was dreaming of a glorious day when he, he himself, would lead the victorious levy through the Khyber, first in the field against the Russ, when a murmur that swelled to a cry of fear rose from the ranks, and the troops melted away before their king. Rifles and accoutrements were flung aside; there was a wild stampede, and the gorgeously attired colonel, putting spurs to his horse, mingled with the dust and was lost to view. The Maharaj stormed in his native tongue, and then burst into English oaths. He had a very pretty vocabulary, for had he not been brought up under the tender care of the Sirkar? He turned in his fury towards the Vizier, but was only in time to see the snowy robes of that high functionary disappearing into a culvert, and the confused mob of his court running helter-skelter across the sward. But yet another object caught the prince's eye, and chilled him with horror. It was the vast bulk of Shere Bahadur moving rapidly and noiselessly towards him. Sri Ranabir was a Rajpoot of the bluest blood, and his heart was big: but this awful sight, this swift, silent advance of hideous death, paralyzed him with fear. Already the long shadow of the elephant had moved near his feet, already he seemed impaled on those cruel white tusks, when there was a snapping bark, and the fox-terrier flew at Shere Bahadur and danced round him in a tempest of rage. The elephant turned, and made a savage dash at the dog, who skipped nimbly between his legs and renewed the assault in the rear. But this moment of reprieve roused His Highness. The prince became a man, and the Maharaj turned and fled, darting like a star across the soft green. Shere Bahadur saw the flash of the jewelled aigrette, the sheen of the order, and, giving up the dog, curled his trunk and started in pursuit. It was a desperate race. The Maharaj was out of training, but the time he made was wonderful, and the diamond buckles on his shoes formed a streak of light as he fled. But, fast as he ran, the race would have ended in a few seconds if it were not for Bully, the little white fox-terrier. Bully thoroughly grasped the situation, and acted accordingly. He ran round the elephant, now skipping between his legs, the next moment snapping at him behind--and Bully had a remarkably fine set of teeth. The Maharaj sighted a small hut, the door of which stood invitingly open. It was a poor hut made of grass and sticks, but it seemed a royal palace to him.
"Holy Gunputty!" he gasped. "If I could----"
But it was no time to waste words. Already the snakelike trunk of his enemy was stretched out to fold round him, when with a desperate spurt he reached the door, and dashed in. But Shere Bahadur was not to be denied. He stood for a moment, and then, putting forward his forefoot, staved in the side of the frail shelter and brought down the house. Sri Ranabir hopped out like a rat, and it was well for him that in the cloud of dust and thatch flying about he was unobserved, for Shere Bahadur, now careless of Bully's assaults and certain of his man, was diligently searching the débris. But he found nothing save a brass vessel, which he savagely flung at the dog. Then he carefully stamped on the hut, and reduced everything to chaos. In the meantime Sri Ranabir, unconscious that the pursuit had ceased, ran on as if he was wound up like a clock, ran until his foot slipped, and the Maharaj Adhiraj rolled into the soft bed of a nullah, and lay there with his eyes closed, utterly beaten, and careless whether the death he had striven so hard to avoid came or not. Then there was a buzzing in his ears and everything became a blank.
"Blessed be the prophet! He liveth." And the Vizier helped his fallen master to rise, aided by the Heir Apparent, in whose heart, however, there were thoughts far different from those which found expression on the lips of the Nawab Juggun Jung, prime minister of Kalesar. The sympathetic, if somewhat excited, court crowded round their king, and a little in the distance was the whole population of Kalesar, armed with every conceivable weapon, and keeping up their courage by beating on tom-toms, blowing horns, and shouting until the confusion of sound was indescribable.
"Come back to the palace, my lord. They will drive the evil one out of him." And the Vizier waved his hand in the direction of the crowd, and pointed to where in the distance Shere Bahadur was making slowly and steadily for the hills. But the Maharaj Adhiraj would do no such thing. "Ryful lao!" he roared in his vernacular; "Gimme my gun!" he shrieked in English. There was no refusing; a double-barrelled gun was thrust in his hands, he scrambled on the back of the first horse he saw, and, followed by his cheering subjects and the whole court, dashed after the elephant.
"Mirror of the Universe, destroy him not," advised the Vizier who rode at the prince's bridle-hand. "The beast is worth eight thousand rupees, and cannot be replaced. The treasury is almost empty, and we will want him when the Lat Saheb comes." The Maharaj was prudent if he was brave, and the empty treasury was a strong argument. Besides, they were getting rather close to Shere Bahadur and outpacing the faithful people. But he gave in slowly. "What is to be done?" he asked, taking a pull at the reins.
"The people will drive him back," replied the Vizier, "and we will chain him up securely. He is but must, and in a month or so all will pass away."