I exclaimed, looking round and examining the strange
faces, and the strange apartment which met my view. "Bekhusm!" said the
apothecary. "Silence! Gahagan Sahib is in the hands of those who know
his valor, and will save his life."

"Know my valor, slave? Of course you do," said I; "but the fort--the
garrison--the elephant--Belinda, my love--my darling--Macgillicuddy--the
scoundrelly mutineers--the deal bo-- . . . ."

I could say no more; the painful recollections pressed so heavily upon
my poor shattered mind and frame, that both failed once more. I fainted
again, and I know not how long I lay insensible.

Again, however, I came to my senses: the pothukoor applied restoratives,
and after a slumber of some hours I awoke, much refreshed. I had no
wound; my repeated swoons had been brought on (as indeed well they
might) by my gigantic efforts in carrying the elephant up a steep hill
a quarter of a mile in length. Walking, the task is bad enough: but
running, it is the deuce; and I would recommend any of my readers who
may be disposed to try and carry a dead elephant, never, on any account,
to go a pace of more than five miles an hour.

Scarcely was I awake, when I heard the clash of arms at my door
(plainly indicating that sentinels were posted there), and a single old
gentleman, richly habited, entered the room. Did my eyes deceive me? I
had surely seen him before. No--yes--no--yes--it WAS he: the snowy white
beard, the mild eyes, the nose flattened to a jelly, and level with the
rest of the venerable face, proclaimed him at once to be--Saadut Alee
Beg Bimbukchee, Holkar's prime vizier; whose nose, as the reader
may recollect, his Highness had flattened with his kaleawn during my
interview with him in the Pitan's disguise. I now knew my fate but too
well--I was in the hands of Holkar.

Saadut Alee Beg Bimbukchee slowly advanced towards me, and with a mild
air of benevolence, which distinguished that excellent man (he was torn
to pieces by wild horses the year after, on account of a difference with
Holkar), he came to my bedside, and taking gently my hand, said,
"Life and death, my son, are not ours. Strength is deceitful, valor is
unavailing, fame is only wind--the nightingale sings of the rose all
night--where is the rose in the morning? Booch, booch! it is withered by
a frost. The rose makes remarks regarding the nightingale, and where is
that delightful song-bird? Penabekhoda, he is netted, plucked, spitted,
and r