But Dugald never moved his head. Was he dead, or were these green sand dunes fairy hillocks, and my brother enchanted?
I leapt off my mule, and, rifle in hand, went on by myself, never taking my eyes off my brother, and with my heart playing pit-a-pat against my ribs.
'Dugald!' I said again.
He never moved.
'Dugald, speak!'
He spoke now almost in a stage whisper:
'A lion in the tree. Have you your rifle?' 163
I beckoned to my brother to come on, and at the same moment the monster gave voice. I was near enough now to take aim at the puma; he was lying in a cat-like attitude on one of the highest limbs. But the angry growl and the moving tail told me plainly enough he was preparing to spring, and spring on Dugald. It was the first wild beast I had ever drawn bead upon, and I confess it was a supreme moment; oh, not of joy, but,—shall I say it?—fear.
What if I should miss!
But there was no time for cogitation. I raised my rifle. At the self-same moment, as if knowing his danger, the brute sprang off the bough. The bullet met him in mid-air, and—he fell dead at Dugald's feet.