Warwick knew at once that Little Shikara was not yet aware of the presence of the tiger fifty feet distant in the shadows.  But he knew nothing else.  The whole situation was beyond his ken.

But his instincts were manly and true.  “Then run speedily, little one,” he whispered, “back to the village.  There is danger here in the dark.”

Little Shikara tried to speak, and he swallowed painfully.  A lump had come in his throat that at first would not let him talk.  “Nay, Protector of the Poor!” he answered.  “I—­I came alone.  And I—­I am thy servant.”

Warwick’s heart bounded.  Not since his youth had left him to a gray world had his strong heart leaped in just this way before.  “Merciful God!” he whispered in English.  “Has a child come to save me?” Then he whipped again into the vernacular and spoke swiftly; for no further seconds were to be wasted.  “Little Shikara, have you ever fired a gun?”

“No, Sahib—­”

“Then lift it up and rest it across my body.  Thou knowest how it is held—­”

Little Shikara didn’t know exactly, but he rested the gun on Warwick’s body; and he had seen enough target practice to crook his finger about the trigger.  And together, the strangest pair of huntsmen that the Indian stars ever looked down upon, they waited.

“It is Nahara,” Warwick explained softly.  For he had decided to be frank with Little Shikara, trusting all to the courage of a child.  “It all depends on thee.  Pull back the hammer with thy thumb.”

Little Shikara obeyed.  He drew it back until it clicked and did not, as Warwick had feared, let it slip through his fingers back against the breach.  “Yes, Sahib,” he whispered breathlessly.  His little brave heart seemed about to explode in his breast.  But it was the test, and he knew he must not waver in the sahib’s eyes.

“It is Nahara, and thou art a man,” Warwick said again.  “And now thou must wait until thou seest her eyes.”

So they strained into the darkness; and in an instant more they saw again the two circles of greenish, smouldering fire.  They were quite near now—­Nahara was almost in leaping range.

“Thou wilt look through the little hole at the rear and then along the barrel,” Warwick ordered swiftly, “and thou must see the two eyes along the little notch in front.”

“I see, Sahib—­and between the eyes,” came the same breathless whisper.  The little brown body held quite still.  Warwick could not even feel it trembling against his own.  For the moment, by virtue of some strange prank of Shiv, the jungle-gods were giving their own strength to this little brown son of theirs beside the ford.

“Thou wilt not jerk or move?”

“Nay, Sahib.”  And he spoke true.  The world might break to pieces or blink out, but he would not throw off his aim by any terror motions.  They could see the tiger’s outline now—­the lithe, low-hung body, the tail that twitched up and down.