Burlesques William Makepeace Thackeray

169
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.
Scarcely was I awake, when I heard the clash of arms at my door (plainly indicating that
sentinels were posted there), and a single old gentleman, richly habited, entered the room.
Did my eyes deceive me? I had surely seen him before. No—yes—no—yes—it WAS he:
the snowy white beard, the mild eyes, the nose flattened to a jelly, and level with the rest of
the venerable face, proclaimed him at once to be—Saadut Alee Beg Bimbukchee, Holkar's
prime vizier; whose nose, as the reader may recollect, his Highness had flattened with his
kaleawn during my interview with him in the Pitan's disguise. I now knew my fate but too
well—I was in the hands of Holkar.
Saadut Alee Beg Bimbukchee slowly advanced towards me, and with a mild air of
benevolence, which distinguished that excellent man (he was torn to pieces by wild horses
the year after, on account of a difference with Holkar), he came to my bedside, and taking
gently my hand, said, "Life and death, my son, are not ours. Strength is deceitful, valor is
unavailing, fame is only wind—the nightingale sings of the rose all night—where is the
rose in the morning? Booch, booch! it is withered by a frost. The rose makes remarks
regarding the nightingale, and where is that delightful song-bird? Penabekhoda, he is