The instant he made his aim sure he pulled the trigger, came to a sitting position, readjusted a cartridge, and placing the glasses to his eyes that he might see the more plainly, watched the result of his shot.

“By Jove; another bull’s-eye!” he gleefully exclaimed, as he saw his man stagger and fall almost at the feet of Dr. Marlowe.  “I don’t know the gentleman’s name, but a first-class obituary notice is in order.  That makes six, and now for the seventh.  I really hope the doctor is keeping score for me.”

The professional eye of the physician saw where the pellet of lead had passed through the chest of Almos, but it was not observed by Mustad or the other Ghoojurs, who probably attributed it in some way to the bite of the cobra, in spite of the miraculous cure that seemed to have been wrought before their eyes.  The three remained in the background, but the fall of the leader appeared to add flames to the hatred of Mustad, who, assuming the mantle of the fallen chieftain, stepped to the front.

“You shall not escape us!” he hissed; “all the Inglese loge shall die!”

“But before any more of them perish, you shall go to the infernal regions to keep company with the imp that has just gone thither.”

The doctor had learned from the exhibition of the preceding afternoon the time required by Jack Everson to repeat his marvelous shots.  He knew, therefore, about the moment when a second was due, and he decided to make its arrival as dramatic as possible.

“You stand almost on the same spot where stood Almos; he dropped dead before me, and,” raising his hand impressively, “I command you to do the same.”

Mustad obeyed.

Again the faint report swept across the extent of jungle, travelling with almost the same speed as the bullet, which, like its predecessor, bored through the dusky chest of the victim and lost itself in the vegetation beyond.  Mustad gasped, convulsively clasped one hand to his breast, flung out both arms, groped blindly for an instant, and then slumped down as dead as one of the mummies of the Pyramids.

And the young American, still reclining on that gray, blistering rock, again rose to a sitting posture and clapped the glasses to his eyes to observe more clearly the result of his last trial at markmanship.

“That makes seven bull’s-eyes!” was his delighted exclamation, “but I have done as well when the distance was twice as great.  I must keep the number in mind, for it will be like the doctor to insist that I made but six out of a possible eight.  I notice that three gentlemen are left and require attention.”

With the same care as before, he lay back and drew bead on the group, but the next moment uttered an impatient exclamation and straightened up again.

“They have fled; only Mary and her father are left, and there’s no call to send any bullets in their direction.”

The fall of Mustad at the command of the wrathful physician was more than the other Ghoojurs could stand.  Suspecting no connection between the almost inaudible reports and the terrifying incidents, they believed their only hope was in headlong flight.  Without a word they dashed down the trail, quickly passing from sight, and were seen no more.