“Some wild beast!” muttered Sandoff, and as he spoke a man’s voice cried, “Help! Help!”
The tragedy—for such it seemed to be—was taking place but a few yards distant.
Rifle in hand, Sandoff ran forward for a dozen yards or more and peered through the thick foliage into a circular open glade. In the center of this rose a rounded bowlder six or eight feet high, and perched on the top was a young man, striking blow after blow with a clubbed rifle at a great wounded tiger cat who was making frantic efforts to get at him.
At sight of the stranger Sandoff uttered a cry of surprise. “Can it be he?” he said aloud. “Yes, it surely is. What can he be doing——”
He did not finish the sentence, for at that instant the tiger cat sprang fairly to the top of the bowlder, and seized the unfortunate man by the ankle. It was no time for hesitation. Sandoff boldly advanced from the bushes, and, taking aim at the tiger cat’s head, fired. The brute rolled backward in his death struggle, while the rescued man half fell, half jumped, from the rock, and limped toward Sandoff with amazement and gratitude visible on his face.
“I owe you my life,” he said huskily. “That was a good shot of yours. I fired twice at the brute, but failed to kill him, and my steward, who was with me, ran off. The coward won’t stop now until he gets to the yacht.”
“The yacht!” cried Sandoff hoarsely. “Is your yacht here? But don’t you know me, Maurice Dupont?—No, of course you don’t. I am Victor Sandoff.”
“Victor Sandoff!” The other repeated the words in an amazed tone. “Can it really be you? How came you here? You, who were sent to Siberia. I heard about it—it was unjust, tyrannical!”
Both were silent for an instant, thinking of the time when they had last met in one of the aristocratic clubs of St. Petersburg.
“Tell me,” said Dupont, “what does this mean?”