"By Jove! I know that: so I shall take my measures in accordance."
Curumilla, stoical as ever, had cut a piece of candlewood, and concealed himself in the shrubs only a few paces from the wild beast. The bear, after a moment's hesitation, during which it looked round with an eye flashing with gloomy fire, as if counting the number of foes it had to fight, uttered a second growl, as it passed a tongue as red as blood over its lips.
"That is it," Valentine said with a laugh; "lick your chops, my fine fellow; still, I warn you that your mouth is watering too soon—you have not got us yet."
The bear seemed to notice the bravado, for it made an effort, and its monstrous head entirely appeared above the level of the platform.
"Did I not tell you it had eaten too much?" the hunter went on. "See what difficulty it finds in moving. Come, sluggard," he said, addressing the terrible animal, "shake yourself up a little."
"Take care," Don Miguel shouted.
"The brute is going to leap on you," Don Pablo said in agony.
In fact, the bear, by a movement swift as lightning, had escaladed the platform with a gigantic bound, and was now scarce twenty yards from the intrepid hunter. Valentine did not move, not one of his muscles shook: he merely clenched his teeth as if going to break them, and a white foam appeared at the corner of his lips. The beast, surprised by the intrepidity of the man, cowed by the electric fluid that flashed from the hunter's haughty eye, fell back a step. For a moment it remained motionless, with hanging head; but it soon began tearing up the ground with its formidable claws, as if encouraging itself to begin the attack.
Suddenly it turned round. Curumilla profited by the movement, of the torch he held in readiness for the purpose, and at a signal from Valentine, made the light flash before the bear. The animal, dazzled by the brilliant glare of the torch, which suddenly dissipated the darkness that surrounded it, savagely rose on its hind legs, and turning toward the Indian, tried to clutch the torch with one of its forepaws, probably in order to put it out.
Valentine cocked his rifle, stood firmly on his legs, aimed carefully, and began whistling softly. So soon as the sound reached the bear's ears, it stopped, and remained thus for some seconds as if trying to account for this unusual noise. The hunter still whistled: the witnesses of the scene held their breath, so interested were they in the strange incidents of this duel between intellect and brute strength. Still they kept their hands on their weapons, ready to hurry to their friend's help, should he be in danger.