As they topped the crest of a low hill, the Gul Moti scanned the country declining before her toward the Nerbudda. A string of jewels appeared—incredibly gorgeous in mid-day light. It was thirty-eight full-caparisoned elephants—going fast. Mitha Baba called on them to wait for her; but they remained in sight only a few minutes. The Gul Moti's high courage sank; the caravan was too near the river to be delayed by Mitha Baba's calls—the river too far ahead.
"Do they ever obey her, Laka Din?" the Gul Moti asked.
"They always used to," the old man replied dubiously.
Finally Mitha Baba came out into the straight descent toward the river.
No elephants were in sight, but a blotch of colour showed on the bank.
"Well done for those mahouts!" the Gul Moti cried out in relief. "The caparisons at least are safe. How did they do it?"
"It was well done, Hakima-ji," the old man exulted. "The masters were listening to Mitha Baba, delaying between her and the river—space of six breaths; then those men became like monkeys! It is no easiness—unfastening everything from top of an elephant. (I who am old have done it!) Also, some went down to loosen underneath buckles. You shall see."
They found four very disconsolate mahouts on the bank of the river beside the great pile of nicely arranged stuff.
"I want the smallest howdah you have!" called the Gul Moti, as the men sprang in front of Mitha Baba.
"But, Hakima-ji," they protested, "by getting down—we were left behind!"
"I must not be left—and yet you must take these clothes from her!" the
Gul Moti said, while they helped the old man to the ground.