Slowly Orman raised the tumbler toward his lips. He held it there for
a moment looking at it; then his vision seemed to pass beyond it, pass
through the canvas wall of the tent out into the night toward the
new-made graves.
With an oath, he hurled the full tumbler to the ground; the bottle
followed it, breaking into a thousand pieces.
"That's goin' to be hell on bare feet," remarked O'Grady.
"I'm sorry, Pat," said Orman; then he sat down wearily on the edge of
his cot and buried his face in his hands.
O'Grady sat up, slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and crossed
the tent. He sat down beside his friend and threw an arm about his
shoulders. "Buck up, Tom!" That was all he said, but the pressure of
the friendly arm was more strengthening than many words or many drinks.
From somewhere out in the night came the roar of a lion and a moment
later a blood-curdling cry that seemed neither that of beast nor man.
"Sufferin' cats!" ejaculated O'Grady. "What was that?"
Orman had raised his head and was listening. "Probably some more grief
for us," he replied forebodingly.
They sat silent for a moment then, listening.
"I wonder what could make such a noise," O'Grady spoke in hushed tones.
"Pat," Orman's tone was serious, "do you believe in ghosts?"
O'Grady hesitated before he replied. "I don't know--but I've seen some
funny things in my time."
"So have I," said Orman.
But perhaps of all that they could conjure to their minds nothing so
strange as the reality; for how could they know that they had heard the
victory cry of an English lord and a great lion who had just made their
kill together?