“I will go to the west wall,” Kaa whispered, “and come down swiftly with the slope of the ground in my favor.  They will not throw themselves upon my back in their hundreds, but—­”

“I know it,” said Bagheera.  “Would that Baloo were here, but we must do what we can.  When that cloud covers the moon I shall go to the terrace.  They hold some sort of council there over the boy.”

“Good hunting,” said Kaa grimly, and glided away to the west wall.  That happened to be the least ruined of any, and the big snake was delayed awhile before he could find a way up the stones.  The cloud hid the moon, and as Mowgli wondered what would come next he heard Bagheera’s light feet on the terrace.  The Black Panther had raced up the slope almost without a sound and was striking—­he knew better than to waste time in biting—­right and left among the monkeys, who were seated round Mowgli in circles fifty and sixty deep.  There was a howl of fright and rage, and then as Bagheera tripped on the rolling kicking bodies beneath him, a monkey shouted:  “There is only one here!  Kill him!  Kill.”  A scuffling mass of monkeys, biting, scratching, tearing, and pulling, closed over Bagheera, while five or six laid hold of Mowgli, dragged him up the wall of the summerhouse and pushed him through the hole of the broken dome.  A man-trained boy would have been badly bruised, for the fall was a good fifteen feet, but Mowgli fell as Baloo had taught him to fall, and landed on his feet.

“Stay there,” shouted the monkeys, “till we have killed thy friends, and later we will play with thee—­if the Poison-People leave thee alive.”

“We be of one blood, ye and I,” said Mowgli, quickly giving the Snake’s Call.  He could hear rustling and hissing in the rubbish all round him and gave the Call a second time, to make sure.

“Even ssso!  Down hoods all!” said half a dozen low voices (every ruin in India becomes sooner or later a dwelling place of snakes, and the old summerhouse was alive with cobras).  “Stand still, Little Brother, for thy feet may do us harm.”

Mowgli stood as quietly as he could, peering through the open work and listening to the furious din of the fight round the Black Panther—­the yells and chatterings and scufflings, and Bagheera’s deep, hoarse cough as he backed and bucked and twisted and plunged under the heaps of his enemies.  For the first time since he was born, Bagheera was fighting for his life.

“Baloo must be at hand; Bagheera would not have come alone,” Mowgli thought.  And then he called aloud:  “To the tank, Bagheera.  Roll to the water tanks.  Roll and plunge!  Get to the water!”