Now a jackal utters a howl on the bank, as our boat shoots past, and the diabolical noise is echoed from knoll to knoll, and from ridge to ridge, as these incarnate devils of the night join in and prolong the infernal chorus.  An occasional splash, as a piece of the bank topples over into the stream, rouses the cormorant and gull from their placid dozing on the sandbanks.  They squeak and gurgle out an unintelligible protest, then cosily settle their heads again beneath the sheltering wing, and sleep the slumber of the dreamless.  A sharp sudden plump, or a lazy surging sound, accompanied by a wheezy blowing sort of hiss, tells us that a seelun is disporting himself; or that a fat old ‘porpus’ is bearing his clumsy bulk through the rushing current.

The bank now looms out dark and mysterious, and as we turn the point another long stretch of the river opens out, reflecting the merry twinkle of the myriad stars, that glitter sharp and clear millions of miles overhead.  There is now a clattering of bamboo poles.  With a grunt of disgust, and a quick catching of the breath, as the cold water rushes up against his thighs, one of the boatmen splashes overboard, and they commence slowly and wearily pushing the boat up stream.  We touch the bank a dozen times.  The current swoops down and turns us round and round.  The men have to put their shoulders under the gunwale, and heave and strain with all their might.  The long bamboo poles are plunged into the dark depths of the river, and the men puff, and grunt, and blow, as they bend almost to the bottom of the boat while they push.  It is a weary progress.  We are dripping wet with dew.  Quite close on the bank we hear the hoarse wailing call of a tigress.  The call of the tiger comes echoing down between the banks.  The men cease poling.  I peer forward into the obscurity.  My syce pats, and speaks soothingly to the trembling horse, while my peon with excited fingers fumbles at the straps of my gun-case.  For a moment all is intensely still.

I whisper to the boatmen to push out a little into the stream.  Again the tigress calls, this time so close to us that we could almost fancy we could feel her breath.  My gun is ready.  The syce holds the horse firmly by the head, and as we leave the bank, we can distinctly see the outline of some large animal, standing out a dark bulky mass against the skyline.  I take a steady aim and fire.  A roar of astonishment, wrath, and pain follows the report.  The horse struggles and snorts, the boatman calls out ‘Oh, my father!’ and ejaculates ‘hi-hi-hi!’ in tones of piled up anguish and apprehension, the peon cries exultantly ‘Wah wah! khodawund, lug, gea,’ that bullet has told; oh your highness! and while the boat rocks violently to and fro, I abuse the boatmen, slang the syce, and rush to grasp a pole, while the peon seizes another; for we are drifting rapidly down stream, and may at any moment strike on a bank and topple over.  We can hear by the growling and commotion on the bank,