CHAPTER IX.
SURPRISE OF FUTTYGHUR.
When I awoke from the trance into which I had fallen, I found myself in
a bath, surrounded by innumerable black faces; and a Hindoo pothukoor
(whence our word apothecary) feeling my pulse and looking at me with an
air of sagacity.
"Where am I?" 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.
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