II.
Slowly Coningsby opened his eyes. His head throbbed with fever and he could scarcely see. The room was almost in darkness; the shades were drawn, creating a restful twilight of peace. Over in one corner he could just dimly make out the lines of his favorite gun. How many times he had carried that gun through the untrodden trails of the dark continent. As he lay there, half-conscious, he remembered the first lion he had slain in East Africa. That was over a dozen years ago, but it seemed like yesterday. One of the native porters had been entrapped by the frenzied animal. In one spring, unexpectedly, the lion was upon him, virtually slashing the poor fellow to ribbons. Arthur Coningsby had heard the Swahili's wild, unearthly screams, screams which seemed to bite into the soul, and in a moment he was rushing to his assistance. For an instant Coningsby gazed upon the sight in horror. Then he raised his rifle and fired once. With a mighty roar which seemed to be echoed by the whole forest, the stricken beast rose to its haunches, blood dripping from its horrible jaws. It made one great bound toward Coningsby, then rolled over dead.
All this time the Swahili had not moved. After
