`` It is our Bhagat , '' said the blacksmith 's wife . `` He stands among his beasts . Gather the little ones and give the call . '' It ran from house to house , while the beasts , cramped in the narrow way , surged and huddled round the Bhagat , and Sona puffed impatiently . The people hurried into the street -- they were no more than seventy souls all told -- and in the glare of the torches they saw their Bhagat holding back the terrified barasingh , while the monkeys plucked piteously at his skirts , and Sona sat on his haunches and roared . `` Across the valley and up the next hill ! '' shouted Purun Bhagat . `` Leave none behind ! We follow ! '' Then the people ran as only Hill folk can run , for they knew that in a landslip you must climb for the highest ground across the valley . They fled , splashing through the little river at the bottom , and panted up the terraced fields on the far side , while the Bhagat and his brethren followed . Up and up the opposite mountain they climbed , calling to each other by name -- the roll-call of the village -- and at their heels toiled the big barasingh , weighted by the failing strength of Purun Bhagat . At last the deer stopped in the shadow of a deep pinewood , five hundred feet up the hillside . His instinct , that had warned him of the coming slide , told him he would he safe here . Purun Bhagat dropped fainting by his side , for the chill of the rain and that fierce climb were killing him ; but first he called to the scattered torches ahead , `` Stay and count your numbers '' ; then , whispering to the deer as he saw the lights gather in a cluster : `` Stay with me , Brother . Stay -- till -- I -- go ! '' There was a sigh in the air that grew to a mutter , and a mutter that grew to a roar , and a roar that passed all sense of hearing , and the hillside on which the villagers stood was hit in the darkness , and rocked to the blow . Then a note as steady , deep , and true as the deep C of the organ drowned everything for perhaps five minutes , while the very roots of the pines quivered to it . It died away , and the sound of the rain falling on miles of hard ground and grass changed to the muffled drum of water on soft earth . That told its own tale .
Never a villager -- not even the priest -- was bold enough to speak to the XXXXX who had saved their lives .
Bhagat Brother Hill Sona barasingh fainting first landslip pinewood roll-call