I made up my mind then it was time to shoot the German, whatever the crimes of the Greek might be; but Coutlass had not grown slower of wit from loss of blood.  As he dodged he rolled sidewise and seized my rifle, jerking it from my hand.  He jerked too quickly.  The German saw the move and kicked it, sending it spinning several yards away.  We all made a sudden scramble for it, Schillingschen leading, when the German turned as suddenly as one of the great apes he so resembled, tripped Will by the heel, wrenched the rifle from his right hand, pounced on the empty tin box, and was gone!

Too late, I remembered my own rifle and fired after him, emptying the magazine at shadows.

Will’s rage and self-contempt were more distressing than the Greek’s spouting knife-wounds.

“By blood and knuckle-bones!  Give me that gun of yours, will you!  I go after the swine!  I cut his liver out!  Where is my knife?  Ah, there it is!  Stoop and give it me, for my ribs hurt!  So!  Now I go after him!”

We held Coutlass back, making him be still while we tore his shirt in strips, and then our own, and tried to staunch the blood, Will almost blubbering with rage while his fingers worked, and the Greek cursing us both for wasting time.

“He has the box!” he screamed.  “He has the rifle!”

“He has no ammunition but what’s in the magazine,” said I; and that started Will off swearing at himself all over again from the beginning.

“You damned yegg!” he complained as be knotted two strips of shirt.  “This would never have happened if you hadn’t sneaked out to steal the contents of the box!”

Suddenly Coutlass screamed again, like a mad stallion smelling battle.

“There he is!  There the swine is!  I see him!  I hear him!  Give me that—­”

He reached for my rifle, but I was too quick that time and stepped back out of range of his arm.  As I did that the blood burst anew from his wounds.  He put his left hand to his side and scattered the hot blood up in the air in a sort of votive offering to the gods of Greek revenge, and, brandishing the long knife, tore away into the dark.

“I see him!” he yelled.  “I see the swine!  By Gassharamminy!  To-night his naked feet’ll blister on the floor of hell!”

We followed him, enthralled by mixed motives made of desire and a sort of half-genuine respect for the courage of this man, who claimed three countries and disgraced each one at intervals in turn.  We did not go so fast as he.  We were not so enamored of the risks the dark contained.

Suddenly there came out of the blackness just ahead a marrow-curdling cry—­agony, rage, and desperation—­that surely no human ever uttered—­roar, yelp of pain, and battle-cry in one.

“Help!” yelled Coutlass.  “Help!  Oh-ah!  Ah!”

We raced forward then, I leading with my rifle thrust forward.  A second later I fired; and that was the only time in my life I ever touched a lion’s face with a rifle muzzle before I pulled the trigger!  The brute fell all in a heap, with Coutlass underneath him and the Greek’s long knife stuck in his shoulder to the hilt.  The lion must have died within the minute without my shot to finish him.