these years! Ken, old dear, I'm surprized!"
"Didn't need the other gun, anyway," the major muttered. "They're both dead." He eased himself into a better position.
Kensington misinterpreted the movement.
"Don't go down, my dear fellow," he whispered. "I've known supposedly dead leopards to charge and kill an over-hasty hunter."
"Never thought of doing such a thing," the major growled testily. Tm not such a greenhorn!"
An hour passed and still the clearing lay as silently as before.
"I hear the tonga coming back!" Sawyer exclaimed. "Come on! Let's go!"
He slid swiftly down one side of the rope ladder, sailor fashion, his gun slung over his back. Kensington saw him carelessly kick the female with a hurried foot as he passed the body. There was no response. The beast was dead. Sawyer Ellison ran over to the larger animal.
The major cautiously thrust his portly bulk over the edge of the machin, feeling with his legs for the rounds of the swaying, spidery rope ladder.
The supposedly dead leopard sprang up with a roar. Before Kensington could recover from his stupor Sawyer lay on the ground with the snarling, raging beast above him. Its murderous claws were shredding his clothing, tearing his flesh to ribbons, the snarling head was thrust into his face as its white fangs sought his throat.
With a hoarse shout Major Ellison slipped from the edge of the machin and fell heavily to the ground twenty feet below.
Twice Kensington sighted at that raging beast, each time pausing and staying his eager finger lest he kill his friend. At last, in desperation, he fired.
The beast rolled over and over, a snarling, spitting, clawing, squalling fury of destruction. Gradually its struggles subsided, it lay sprawled in the white moonlight.
Kensington reloaded the empty barrel and slid swiftly to the ground. The major was groaning, his florid face ashen and drawn. One glance was enough. Kensington felt sick. The fall had broken both the major's legs; through the bloody trousers protruded a splintered bone. Before Kensington's eyes floated a wavering picture of a face screwed into a demoniac mask of rage under filthy matted hair, of glowing, glaring eyes and foam-flecked lips—in his ears sounded again wild screaming curses. . . .
He hurried to the younger man. He stared at the gaping, tom throat through which life had already fled. He shuddered anew at the bloody mass of torn flesh that had been his friend and schoolmate. . . .
From the dense jungle behind him floated an elfin laugh, faint, clear, bell-like—was it one of the memsahibs up there at Mount Abu?
With excited gabblings, and swirling, smoking torches held high above their heads, that swayed in a wild grotesque dance, his servants broke through the jungle screen into the clearing.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling;
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.
