The man who said these words was not less than magical in his power to control the unruly; but he never took credit to himself. "That is the voice of a fighter—smooth as curds of cream—and it reaches from far out; very far out."
The challenge-call sounded again; and the big males of the stockade answered without hesitation.
These mahouts had trained ears; and they listened—computing the stranger's rate of speed. The fullness of tone increased; and presently one said:
"He comes fast."
But they were not prepared to see the elephant that rolled into the glare of their torches out of the night.
He came to pause in the centre of the exercise arena—a vast sanded disk just front of the stockade buildings—and stood rocking his huge body, tamping the ground with his feet as if still travelling. The mahout on his neck spoke to him patiently:
"Now will my master use his intelligence to understand that we have arrived?"
Then turning to the men on the ground, the strange mahout said wistfully:
"Look on me with compassion, oh men of honour and of fame! I have heard of you, but you have not heard of me."
"We have heard of you, that you are the making of a master-mahout, in due time," answered Kudrat Sharif.