s in Upper Burma.

Within the hour the signal of _"Mail, mail!"_ (Go on, go on!) was given,
and the final laps of the drive began.

The hills grew full of sound. The beaters sprang up with firebrand and
rifle, and closed swiftly about the herd. The animals moved slowly at
first. The time was not quite ripe to throw them into a panic. Many
times the herd would leave their trail and start to dip into a valley or
a creek-bed, but always there was a new crowd of beaters to block their
path. But presently the beaters closed in on them. Then the animals
began a wild descent squarely toward the mouth of the _keddah_.

_"Hai!"_ the wild men cried. "Oh, you forest pigs! On, on! Block the way
through that valley, you brainless sons of jackals! Are you afraid?
_Ai!_ Stand close! Watch, Puran! Guard your post, Khusru! Now on, on--do
not let them halt! _Arre! Aihai!_"

Firebrands waved, rifles cracked, the wild shout of beaters increased
in volume. The men closed in, driving the beasts before them.

But there was one man that did not raise his voice. Through all the
turmoil and pandemonium he crouched at the end of the stockade wing,
tense, and silent and alone. To one that could have looked into his
eyes, it would have seemed that his thoughts were far and far away. It
was just old Langur Dass, named for a monkey and despised of men.

He was waiting for the instant that the herd would come thundering down
the hill, in order to pass lighted firebrands to the bold men who held
that corner. He was not certain that he could do the thing he had set
out to do. Perhaps the herd would sweep past him, through the gates. If
he did win, he would have to face alone the screaming, infuriated
hillmen, whose knives were always ready to draw. But knives did not
matter now. Langur Dass had only his own faith and his own creed, and no
fear could make him betray them.

Muztagh had lost control of his herd. At their head ran the old leader
that he had worsted. In their hour of fear they had turned back to him.
What did this youngster know of elephant-drives? Ever the waving
firebrands drew nearer, the beaters lessened their circle, the avenues
of escape became more narrow. The yawning arms of the stockade stretched
just beyond.

"Will I win, jungle gods?" a little grey man at the _keddah_ wing was
whispering to the forests. "Will I save you, great one that I knew in
babyhood? Will you go down into chains before the night is done? _Ai!_ I
hear