And as he stood, lifting the fagot
high, he heard the wild elephants trumpeting from the hills.
He turned his head in amazement. A Burman, and particularly one who
chases the wild elephants in their jungles, is intensely superstitious,
and for an instant it seemed to him that the wild trumpeting must have
some secret meaning, it was so loud and triumphant and prolonged. It was
greatly like the far-famed elephant salute--ever one of the mysteries of
those most mysterious of animals--that the great creatures utter at
certain occasions and times.
"Are you saluting this little one?" he cried. "He is not a wild tusker
like you. He is not a wild pig of the jungle. He is born in bonds, such
as you will wear too, after the next drive!"
They trumpeted again, as if in scorn of his words. Their great strength
was given them to rule the jungle, not to haul logs and pull chains! The
man turned back to the lines and lifted higher his light.
Yes--the little elephant in the light-glow was of the Kumiria. Never had
there been a more perfect calf. The light of greed sprang again in his
eyes. And as he held the fagot nearer so that the beams played in the
elephant's eyes and on his coat, the mahout sat down and was still, lest
the gods observe his good luck, and, being jealous, turn it into evil.
The coat was not pinky dark, as is usual in baby elephants. It was
distinctly light-coloured--only a few degrees darker than white.
The man understood at once.
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