"Mitha Baba, I want him—I want him!"
And the elephant turned on a circle and caught him up, throwing him far enough back, so the Gul Moti could help him into the howdah.
"My day is done!" he said bitterly.
"Nay, father!" the girl physician answered him. "She knew you were not safe there."
"Is it so?" the old man marvelled. "Indeed, she always loved me! Now I am satisfied!"
Then, in the white fire of what men call genius, the Gul Moti stood up to meet this new emergency—leaning toward Mitha Baba's head—and called in ringing tones:
"Now come, Mitha Baba, we're away! We're going out to fetch them in!
Away, away, awa-a-ay!"
So long as he lived, the old mahout told of the intoxicating splendour of that young voice—the golden beauty of those tones; of how Mitha Baba reached out further and further every stride, to its rhythm, till the earth rose up and the stars began to swing.
"We'll fetch them in, Mitha Baba, we'll fetch them in! . . . Away, away, awa-a-ay!"
But the toiler of wild elephants had remembered the game she loved.