The old voice rose to a thin shout of triumph which lapsed into silence as, totally oblivious of his prisoner, he sank to the ground, lost, quite suddenly, in that wonderful abstraction of the East in which the native can find escape from the trials of life at odd moments, and in unaccountably odd places.

During the long silence that followed, Jan Cuxson sat patiently puffing at his pipe and trying to piece the strange tale together, until at an advanced hour of the night he once more felt the hawk-like eyes fixed upon his face.

Eagerly he picked up the thread of the story as though there had been no lapse.

“You mesmerised her, you say, eighteen years ago, and you pretend you can still bend her to your will?”

“Nay, Sahib!  Through me Kali the Terrible imprinted her will upon the babe’s tender mind those many moons ago!”

Cuxson shook his head.

“You can’t make me believe that—­it’s rubbish—­like the mango tree and rope trick—­it’s impossible, simply impossible to make strong-minded, level-headed people do things against their will.”

In such wise does the westerner account to his own satisfaction for the mysterious workings of the East.

The old man said no word, but looked steadily between the young man’s eyes.

“If the sahib will look to his right hand!”

Cuxson turned his head and started.

Eyes glaring, tail thrashing the ground, and ears flattened to the great head, a tiger half crouched.

“The devil!” he ejaculated, as the mouth of the great animal twisted spasmodically.  “Here’s a fix.”

“The sahib will place his hand upon the tiger’s head.”

“Not much!”

“The sahib is afraid!”

The quiet scorn of the words struck Cuxson like a whip, and he stretched out his hand impulsively towards the smooth head with flattened ears and glaring eyes.

There was not a sound, though the tail swished the ground, and the huge mouth opened slowly, showing the splendid ivories.

“The sahib, if he is not afraid, will close his hand firmly upon the throat!”

Cuxson’s hand closed gently upon the striped skin; then he exclaimed sharply on perceiving that the only thing his hand grasped was air.

“Why—­what—­how the——!”

The old man nodded his head gently, and answered without a smile.  “It was the will of the Black One that the sahib should see the steed upon which she roams the jungle at night!”

But Cuxson was British, and would not be convinced.

“I don’t believe it,” he said shortly.  “That was a tame animal, which strays in and out of the temple like a tame cat.”

“Will the sahib look at the dust upon the ground.  Is there sign of feet, marks of the body, or the lashing of the tail upon the dust?”

Truly the dust, save for the deer marks, was undisturbed, but Cuxson shook his head stoutly, and refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes.