The Count struggled to sit up, and had almost succeeded when the huge enraged form of the bull elephant pounded over the blind. One of its great feet struck the Count a glancing blow on the shoulder and he screamed like a hand-saw and once again flung himself flat on the floor of the dugout while the elephant pounded onwards towards the far horizon, still in pursuit of the flying car.
The earth shook beneath the approach of another heavy body, and the Count flattened himself to the floor of the dugout deafened, dazed and paralysed with terror, until the commander of tanks stood over him and asked solicitously, "Was the game to your liking, my Colonel?" Even after Gino returned and Helped the Count to his feet, dusted him down and helped him into the back seat of the Rolls, the threats and insults still poured from the Count's choked throat in a high-pitched stream.
"You are a degenerate and a coward. You are guilty of dereliction of duty, of gross irresponsibility. You allowed them to escape, sir and you placed me in deadly peril-" They eased the Count down on the cushions of the Rolls, but as the car pulled away he jumped up to hurl a parting salvo at the Captain of tanks.
"You are an irresponsible degenerate, sir! - a coward and a Bolshevik and I shall personally command your firing squad-" His voice faded into the distance as the Rolls drew away up the ridge in the direction of the camp, but the Count's good arm was still waving and gesticulating as they crossed the skyline.
The elephant followed them far out across the desert, long after the pursuing tank squadron had been left behind and abandoned the chase.
The old bull lost ground steadily over the last mile or so, until at last he also gave up and stood swaying with exhaustion but still shaking out his ears and throwing up his trunk in that truculent, almost human gesture of challenge and defiance.
Gareth saluted him with respect as they drew away and left him, like a tall black monolith, out on the dry pale plains. Then he lit two cheroots, crouching down into the turret out of the wind, and passed one down to Jake in the driver's compartment.
"A good day's work, (old son. We pronged two of the godless ones, and we have put the others in the right frame of mind."
"How's that again? "Jake puffed gratefully at the cheroot.
"Next time those tank men lay eyes on us, they'll not stop to count consequences, but they'll be after us like a pack of long dogs after a bitch."
"And that's a good thing? "Jake removed the cheroot from his mouth to ask incredulously.
"That's a good thing' Gareth assured him.
"Well, you could have fooled me." He drove on for a few more minutes in silence towards the mountains, then shook his head bemusedly.
Tranged? What the hell kind of word is that?"
"Just thought of it this minute," Gareth said. "Expressive, what?" -" The Count lay face down upon his cot; he wore only a pair of silk shorts, of a pale and delicate blue, embroidered with his family coat of arms.
His body was smooth and pale and plump, with that sleek well-fed sheen which takes a great deal of money, food and drink to nourish. On the pale skin his body hair was dark and curly and crisp as newly picked lettuce leaves. It grew in a light cloud across his shoulders, and then descended his back to disappear at last like a wisp of smoke into the cleft of his milky buttocks that showed coyly above the waistband of his shorts.
Now the smoothness of his body was spoiled by the ugly red abrasions and new purple bruises which flowered upon his ribs and blotched his legs and arms.
He groaned with a mixture of agony and gratification as Gino knelt over him, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and worked the liniment into his shoulder. His dark sinewy fingers sank deeply into the sleek pale flesh, and the stench of liniment stung the eyes and nostrils.
"Not so hard, Gino. Not so hard, I am badly hurt."
"I am sorry, my Colonel," and he worked on in silence while the Count groaned and grunted and wriggled on the bed under him.
"My Colonel, may I speak?"
"No," grunted the Colonel. "Your salary is already liberal.
No, Gino, already I pay you a prince's ransom."
"My Colonel, you do me wrong. I would not speak of such a mundane subject at this time."
"I am delighted to hear it," groaned the Count. "Ah!
There! That spot! That's it!" Gino worked on the spot for a few seconds. "If you study the lives of the great Italian Generals Julius Caesar and-" Gino paused here while he searched his mind and more recent history for another great Italian General; the silence stretched out and Gino repeated, "Take Julius Caesar, as an example."
"Yes?"
"Even Julius Caesar did not himself swing the sword. The truly great commander stands aside from the actual battle.
He directs, plans, commands the lesser mortals."
"That is true, Gino."
"Any peasant can swing a sword or fire a gun, what are they but mere cattle!"
"That is also true."
"Take Napoleon Bonaparte, or the Englishman Wellington." Gino had abandoned his search for the name of a victorious Italian warrior within the last thousand years or SO.
"Very well, Gino, take them?"
"When they fought, they themselves were remote from the actual conflict. Even when they confronted each other at Waterloo, they stood miles apart like two great chess masters, directing, manoeuvring, commanding-" "What are you trying to say, Gino?"
"Forgive me, my coUnt, but have you not perhaps let your courage blind you, have not your warlike instincts, your instinct to tear the jugular from your enemy ... have you not perhaps lost sight of a commander's true role the duty to stand back from the actual fighting and survey the overall battle?" Gino waited with trepidation for the Count's reaction. It had taken him all his courage to speak, but even the Count's wrath could not outweigh the terror he felt at the prospect of being plunged once more into danger. His place was at the Count's side; if the Count continued to expose them both to all the terrors and horrors of this barren and hostile land, then Gino knew that he could no longer continue.
His nerves were trampled, raw, exposed, his nights troubled with dreams from which he woke sweating and trembling.
He had a nerve below his left eye that had recently begun to twitch without control. He was fast reaching the end of his nervous strength.
Soon something within him might snap.
"Please, my Count. For the good of all of us you must all curb your impetuosity." He had touched a responsive chord in his master. He had voiced precisely the Count's own feelings, feelings which had over the last few weeks" desperate adventures, become deep-seated convictions.
He struggled up on one elbow, lifted his noble head with its anguished brow and looked at the little sergeant.
"Gino," he said. "You are a philosopher."
"You do me too much honour, my Count."
"No! No! I mean it. You have a certain gutter wisdom, the perceptions of the streets, a peasant philosopher." Gino would not himself have put it quite that way, but he bowed his head in acquiescence.
"I have been unfair to my brave boys," said the Count, and his whole demeanour changed, becoming radiant and glowing with good will, like that of a reprieved prisoner. "I have thought only of myself my own glory, my own honour, recklessly I have plunged into danger, without reckoning the cost. Ignoring the terrible risk that I might leave my brave boys without a leader orphans without a father." Gino nodded fervently. "Who could ever replace you in their hearts, or at their head?"
"Gino." The Count clapped a fatherly hand to his shoulder.
"I must be less selfish in the future."
"My Count, you cannot know how much pleasure it gives me to hear it," cried Gino, and he trembled with relief as he thought of long, leisurely days spent in peace and security behind the earthworks and fortifications of Chaldi camp.