With flaming eyes, trunk
curled, and head thrown up, the elephant charged.
For one brief instant the man felt an insane desire to flee but, mastering
it, he faced the on-rushing brute. A minute more, and all would be over.
The soldier was unconscious of the shouts that rent the air, of the
spectators crowding the balconies and windows. He felt perfectly cool now
and had but one regret--that he had not been able to see Noreen again, as
she had wished, before he died.
He drew a deep breath, his last perhaps before Death reached him, and took
a step forward to meet his doom.
But at his movement a miracle happened. Not five yards from him the
charging elephant suddenly tried to check its rush, flung all its weight
back and, unable to halt, slid forward with stiffened fore-legs over the
paving-stones. When at last it stopped one tusk was actually touching the
man. Tail, ears, and trunk drooped, and it backed with every evidence of
terror. Some instinct had warned it at the last moment that this man was
sacred to the mammoth tribe.
Like a flash enlightenment came to Dermot. Once again a mysterious power
had saved him. The elephant knew and feared him. Yet he seemed as one in a
dream. He looked up at the native portion of the Palace and became aware of
the spectators on the roofs, the staring faces at the windows, the eyes of
the women peering at him through the latticed casements of the _zenana_.
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