A minute—two minutes, that seemed like hours, did the doctor stand there, expecting to hear some movement on the tiger’s part, either for attack or retreat; but it did not stir, and he dared not fire again at random.
Just then there was a low groan, and a faint movement at his feet.
The doctor’s piece swung round involuntarily, but directly after he recalled that it must be the Malay, and with dry throat and lips he spoke to him.
“Are you much hurt?”
There was a few moments’ pause, and then the Malay spoke.
“My shoulder is gnawed; I can’t use my arm.”
“Can you crawl behind me?” said the doctor, hoarsely.
For reply the Malay rose to his feet, and staggering slightly, he made his way behind where the doctor stood.
“I dare not move,” said Doctor Bolter. “The beast may spring upon us again.”
“No,” said the Malay, whose voice sounded stronger; “he is dead. Have you a light?”