“No, oh, no; it was not that. But the beast–the leopard! At first we heard one roar; then it was that dreadful snarling and yelling–most awful squalling! . . . . The wretched thing came leaping and tumbling down the path, all singed and blinded. Blake fired the big truss of grass, and the brute rolled right into the flames. It was shocking–dreadfully shocking! The wretched creature writhed and leaped about till it plunged into the pool. . . . . When it sought to crawl out, all black and hideous, Blake went up and killed it with his club–crushed in its skull–Ugh!”
Miss Leslie gazed at the unnerved Englishman with calm scrutiny.
“But why should you feel so about it?” she asked. “Was it not the beast’s life against ours?”
“But so horrible a death!”
“I’m sure Mr. Blake would have preferred to shoot the creature, had he a gun. Having nothing else than fire, I think it was all very brave of him. Now we are sure of water and food. Had we not best be going?”
“It was to fetch you that Blake sent me.”
Winthrope spoke with perceptible stiffness. He was chagrined, not only by her commendation of Blake, but by the indifference with which she had met his agitation.
They started at once, Miss Leslie in the lead. As they rounded the point, she caught sight of the smoke still rising from the cleft. A little later she noticed the vultures which were streaming down out of the sky from all quarters other than seaward. Their focal point seemed to be the trees at the foot of the cleft. A nearer view showed that they were alighting in the thorn bushes on the south border of the wood.
Of Blake there was nothing to be seen until Miss Leslie, still in the lead, pushed in among the trees. There they found him crouched beside a small fire, near the edge of the pool. He did not look up. His eyes were riveted in a hungry stare upon several pieces of flesh, suspended over the flames on spits of green twigs.
“Hello!” he sang out, as he heard their footsteps. “Just in time, Miss Jenny. Your broiled steak’ll be ready in short order.”