“Get off!” she ordered sharply, with a gesture of command.
The beast had doubtless a very plentiful ignorance of the English language, but gesture is a universal speech. He understood it quite clearly. He faced her eye, and endured it for some seconds, being minded to dispute its authority. Then his glance shifted, his whole attitude changed. He rose from his crouching posture, his tail drooped, his tension relaxed, he looked back over his shoulder, then turned and padded furtively away. Just as he was leaving, the man awoke with a start, sat up, gave one wondering look at Miranda, caught sight of the panther’s retreating form, and reached for his rifle.
Quick as light, Miranda intervened. Stepping between his hand and its purpose, she flamed out against him with sudden anger.
“How dare you—go to shoot him!” she cried, her voice trembling.
He had sprung to his feet, and was staring at her flushed face with a mixture of admiration and bewilderment.
“But he was goin’ to jump onto me!” he protested.
“Well,” rejoined Miranda, curtly, “he didn’t! And you’ve got no call to shoot him!”
“Why didn’t he?” asked the young man.
“I drove him off. If I’d thought you’d shoot him, I’d have let him jump onto you,” was the cool reply.
“Why didn’t he jump onto you?” asked the stranger, his keen grey eyes lighting up as if he began to understand the situation.