Fortunately for him he had, upon entering, kept well to one side before he squatted. He had done so, in order to place himself under the darkness. Had he remained in the central part of the “entrance-hall,” he would either have been run over by the bear, or gripped between its huge paws, before he could have pronounced those two famous words, “Jack Robinson.” As it was, he had scarcely crouched down, when the bear entered, still snorting and growling, and rushed past him up the cave. It made no stop near the entrance, but kept right on, until, from the noises it continued to make, Karl could tell that it had gone a good way into the interior of the cavern.
It was now a question with the plant-hunter what course he should follow—whether remain where he was, or pop out again upon the ledge?
Certainly his present situation afforded him no security. Should the bear return to the attack, he could not expect it to pass without perceiving him. He knew that these animals can see in a very obscure light—almost in the midst of darkness; and therefore he would be seen, or if not seen, he would be scented, which was equally as bad.
It was no use, then, remaining inside; and although he might be no safer outside, he determined to go thither. At all events, he would have light around him, and could see his antagonist before being attacked; while the thought of being assailed in the cave, and hugged to death by an unseen enemy in the darkness, had something awful and horrible in it. If he were to be destroyed in this way, neither Caspar nor Ossaroo might ever know what had become of him—his bones might lie in that dark cavern never to be discovered by human eyes: it was a fearful apprehension!
Karl could not bear it; and, rising half erect, he rushed out into the light.
He did not pause by the entrance of the cave, but ran back along the shelf to the point where the path led up. Here he stopped, and for several minutes stood—now looking anxiously back towards the cavern’s mouth, and now as anxiously casting his glances down the giddy path that conducted to the bottom of the cliff.
Had Karl known the true disposition of the Tibet bear, or the design of the particular one he had thus encountered, he would not have been so badly frightened. In truth, the bear was as much disinclined to an encounter as he, at a loss, no doubt, to make out the character of its adversary. It was probable that Karl himself was the first human biped the animal had ever set eyes on; and, not knowing the strength of such a strange creature, it was willing enough to give him a wide berth, provided he would reciprocate the civility!
The bear, in fact, was only rushing to its cave; perhaps to join its mate there, or defend its cubs, which it believed to be in danger, and had no idea whatever of molesting the plant-hunter, as it afterwards proved.
But Karl could not know this, and did not know it. He fancied all the while that the bear was in pursuit of him; that, to attack him, it had sprung up to the ledge; and that it had rushed past him into the cave, thinking he had gone far in; that, as soon as it should reach the interior, and find he was no longer there, it would come rushing out again, and then—
It is well-known that one danger makes another seem less, and that despair will often lend courage to cowards.