she, or I, or the elephant.  At any rate the last was considerably startled; he had been fishing for mealies—­the old woman was a mere accident, and one that greatly discomposed his nerves.  He gave a sort of trumpet, and threw her away from him right into the crown of a low mimosa tree, where she stuck shrieking like a metropolitan engine.  The old bull lifted his tail, and flapping his great ears prepared for flight.  I put up my eight-bore, and aiming hastily at the point of his shoulder (for he was broadside on), I fired.  The report rang out like thunder, making a thousand echoes in the quiet hills.  I saw him go down all of a heap as though he were stone dead.  Then, alas! whether it was the kick of the heavy rifle, or the excited bump of that idiot Gobo, or both together, or merely an unhappy coincidence, I do not know, but the rotten beam broke and I went down too, landing flat at the foot of the tree upon a certain humble portion of the human frame.  The shock was so severe that I felt as though all my teeth were flying through the roof of my mouth, but although I sat slightly stunned for a few seconds, luckily for me I fell light, and was not in any way injured.

“Meanwhile the elephant began to scream with fear and fury, and, attracted by his cries, the other two charged up.  I felt for my rifle; it was not there.  Then I remembered that I had rested it on a fork of the bough in order to fire, and doubtless there it remained.  My position was now very unpleasant.  I did not dare to try and climb the tree again, which, shaken as I was, would have been a task of some difficulty, because the elephants would certainly see me, and Gobo, who had clung to a bough, was still aloft with the other rifle.  I could not run because there was no shelter near.  Under these circumstances I did the only thing feasible, clambered round the trunk as softly as possible, and keeping one eye on the elephants, whispered to Gobo to bring down the rifle, and awaited the development of the situation.  I knew that if the elephants did not see me—­which, luckily, they were too enraged to do—­they would not smell me, for I was up-wind.  Gobo, however, either did not, or, preferring the safety of the tree, would not hear me.  He said the former, but I believed the latter, for I knew that he was not enough of a sportsman to really enjoy shooting elephants by moonlight in the open.  So there I was behind my tree, dismayed, unarmed, but highly interested, for I was witnessing a remarkable performance.

“When the two other bulls arrived the wounded elephant on the ground ceased to scream, but began to make a low moaning noise, and to gently touch the wound near his shoulder, from which the blood was literally spouting.  The other two seemed to understand; at any rate, they did this.  Kneeling down on either side, they placed their trunks and tusks underneath him, and, aided by his own efforts, with one great lift got him on to his feet.  Then leaning against him on either side to support him, they marched off at a walk in the direction of the village.[*] It was a pitiful sight, and even then it made me feel a brute.