“All up!” I said to myself, for I felt the brute’s weight upon my back pressing me down among the moss, and what was worse, its hot breath upon my neck as it dropped its jaws to bite me in the head.  Then I heard the report of Scroope’s rifle, followed by furious snarling from the leopard, which evidently had been hit.  Also it seemed to think that I had caused its injuries, for it seized me by the shoulder.  I felt its teeth slip along my skin, but happily they only fastened in the shooting coat of tough corduroy that I was wearing.  It began to shake me, then let go to get a better grip.  Now, remembering that Scroope only carried a light, single-barrelled rifle, and therefore could not fire again, I knew, or thought I knew, that my time had come.  I was not exactly afraid, but the sense of some great, impending chance became very vivid.  I remembered—­not my whole life, but one or two odd little things connected with my infancy.  For instance, I seemed to see myself seated on my mother’s knee, playing with a little jointed gold-fish which she wore upon her watch-chain.

After this I muttered a word or two of supplication, and, I think, lost consciousness.  If so, it can only have been for a few seconds.  Then my mind returned to me and I saw a strange sight.  The leopard and Scroope were fighting each other.  The leopard, standing on one hind leg, for the other was broken, seemed to be boxing Scroope, whilst Scroope was driving his big hunting knife into the brute’s carcase.  They went down, Scroope undermost, the leopard tearing at him.  I gave a wriggle and came out of that mossy bed—­I recall the sucking sound my body made as it left the ooze.

Close by was my rifle, uninjured and at full cock as it had fallen from my hand.  I seized it, and in another second had shot the leopard through the head just as it was about to seize Scroope’s throat.

It fell stone dead on the top of him.  One quiver, one contraction of the claws (in poor Scroope’s leg) and all was over.  There it lay as though it were asleep, and underneath was Scroope.

The difficulty was to get it off him, for the beast was very heavy, but I managed this at last with the help of a thorn bough I found which some elephant had torn from a tree.  This I used as a lever.  There beneath lay Scroope, literally covered with blood, though whether his own or the leopard’s I could not tell.  At first I thought that he was dead, but after I had poured some water over him from the little stream that trickled down the rock, he sat up and asked inconsequently: 

“What am I now?”

“A hero,” I answered. (I have always been proud of that repartee.)

Then, discouraging further conversation, I set to work to get him back to the camp, which fortunately was close at hand.

When we had proceeded a couple of hundred yards, he still making inconsequent remarks, his right arm round my neck and my left arm round his middle, suddenly he collapsed in a dead faint, and as his weight was more than I could carry, I had to leave him and fetch help.