. But the outline of it, in the shadows, appeared too lean to be
one of her own.

Soon after that, Mitha Baba trumpeted in a new tone of voice--one the Gul
Moti had never heard before. It sounded very wild, very desolate.

"In the name of all the gods, Mitha Baba, what's the meaning of that?"
the Gul Moti enquired with a little tension--it being one of those
moments when one gains assurance by speech.

But Mitha Baba's reply was in the very oldest language of India--one even
the mahouts know only a very little of. It rose in wild, wistful
tones--higher and higher. It was repeated from time to time; the sense
of it strangely thrilling to the girl on her neck.

. . . They were well up in the mountains, so far that the trees had
become massive of body and heavy and dense of top--the moon only just
showing through--when they heard the trumpeting of elephants, off toward
the east. Mitha Baba answered at once, turning abruptly toward the east.

"Mitha Baba!" the Gul Moti protested, "our people have never gone off in
this direction--where are we, anyway?"

Mitha Baba's calling was just as wild as before; but it had become wild
exultation.

. . . They were coming up into what reminded the Gul Moti of something
she had heard--that the really old jungle is always dark; that the light
of day never touches earth there. This was almost dark, the moon
glinting through black shadows--only at intervals.

The sense of this place was strange. It might be on another planet. And
that thought touched the root of the difference--this was not on, this
was in. Everything felt in--deep in.

Here Mitha Baba changed her voice again. (Nothing had ever happened to
the Gul Moti like it.) It was still wild, still wistful--quite as much
so as before. But there was a cooing roll in it--away and away the most
enticing thing human ears ever listened to. It sounded like
Nature--weaving all spells of all glamour, in tone; soft-flaming gold, in
tone; soft-flaming rose, in tone; and on and on--the very softest,
deepest magics of life-perpetual!

. . . The trumpeting ahead was fuller and nearer, distinctly nearer;
almost as if they were coming into it. Then, without warning, the mighty
mountain trees cut off the moon-lit sky. It had been dark before--now it
was utterly dark!

Suddenly the Gul Moti was aware of a strong earth-smell. There was no
stench about. It had a quality of incense made of tree-gums and
sandalwood and perfume