cautiously, his rope-soled boots enabling him to move silently, and stopped occasionally to listen for the bird’s crow or the telltale pattering over the dried leaves.  Peering into the undergrowth and searching the ground he crept quietly forward.  Suddenly his heart seemed to leap to his throat.  In a patch of dust he saw the unmistakable pug (footprint) of a large panther.  One claw had indented a new-fallen leaf, showing that the animal had very recently passed.  Wargrave halted and thought hard.  He had only his shotgun, but the sun was near its setting and if he returned to the Mess to get his rifle—­which was taken to pieces and locked up in its case—­darkness would probably fall before he could overtake the panther, which was possibly moving on ahead of him.  So he resolved not to turn back, but opened the breech of his gun and extracted the cartridges.  With his knife he cut their thick cases almost through all round at the wad, dividing the powder from the shot.  For he knew that thus treated and fired the whole upper portion of the cartridges would be shot out of the barrels like solid bullets and carry forty yards without breaking up and scattering the shot.

Reloading he advanced cautiously, frequently losing and refinding the trail.  Creeping through a clump of thin bushes he stopped suddenly, frozen with horror and dread.

In an open patch of woodland the two Dermot children stood by a tree, the girl huddled against the trunk, while the little boy had placed himself in front of her and, with a small stick in his hand, was bravely facing in her defence an animal crouching on the ground not twenty yards away.  It was a large panther.  Belly to earth, tail lashing from side to side, it was crawling slowly, imperceptibly nearer its prey.  With ears flattened against the skull and lips drawn back to bare the gleaming fangs in a devilish grin it snarled at the brave child whose dauntless attitude doubtless puzzled it.

“Don’t cry, Eileen.  I won’t let it hurt you,” said the little boy encouragingly.  “Go ’way, nasty dog!”

He raised his little stick above his head.  A boy should always protect a girl, his father had often said, so he was not going to let the beast harm his tiny sister.  The panther crouched lower.  The watcher in the bushes saw the powerful limbs gathering under the spotted body for the fatal spring.  Every muscle and sinew was tense for the last rush and leap, as the subaltern raised his gun.

CHAPTER IX

TIGER LAND

Wargrave fired.  His shot struck the panther rather far back, wounding but not disabling it.  It swung round to face its assailant.  Seeing Frank it promptly charged.  The second cartridge took it in front of the shoulder and raked its body from end to end.  Coughing blood the beast rolled over and over, biting its paws, clawing savagely at the earth, trying to rise and falling back in fury, while Frank rapidly reloaded and stepped between it and the children.  But the convulsions became fewer and less violent, the limbs stiffened, the beautiful black and yellow body sank inert to the ground.  The tail twitched a little.  A few tremors shook the panther.  Then it lay still.