“Sing!” For a moment Tavia could only stare in a paralysis of fright and consternation. Dorothy must have gone mad! Terror had turned her mind!
Dorothy had taken a stand, had faced the crouching beast. She opened her mouth and began to sing, tremulously, quaveringly, at first, in a cracked, thin voice that chilled the very marrow of Tavia’s bones.
But the beast had halted, uncertain, baffled, had crouched close to the ground, baleful eyes fixed suspiciously upon Dorothy, tail angrily switching the ground.
Emboldened, Dorothy sang on, her voice gaining strength and confidence as she saw the effect of her ruse. Tavia, standing still in the trail, mouth agape, watched as though hypnotized.
But it was the panther that was really hypnotized. Here was something he could not understand and which, consequently, disturbed and baffled him. No one had ever sung to him before, and he was instinctively afraid of the thing of which he had had no experience.
Gradually Dorothy and Tavia came to realize that the panther would not attack while Dorothy continued to sing. But how long could she keep it up? That was the question.
The cords of her throat were already aching with the strain, her voice was becoming thin and weak. She could not sing on forever. And when she stopped—what then?
Her voice broke, died away for a moment.
The great beast so close to them stirred, glared ferociously, moved toward them.
Dorothy began to sing again, and Tavia, suddenly ashamed of her silent part in the drama, began to sing too.