“The rest is soon told,” he said presently; but in an altered voice. “It
happened in Ceylon. Our way lay along a bridle-path overhanging a steep
gorge on the one hand and skirting the jungle on the other. Do you know
what the jungle is, little Gretchen? Fancy an untrodden wilderness where
huge trees, matted together by trailing creepers of gigantic size, shut
out the sun and make a green roof of inextricable shade--where the very
grass grows taller than the tallest man--where apes chatter, and parrots
scream, and deadly reptiles swarm; and where nature has run wild since
ever the world began. Well, so we went--I on my horse; Ali at my bridle;
two porters following with food and baggage; the precipice below; the
forest above; the morning sun just risen over all. On a sudden, Ali held
his breath and listened. His practised ear had caught a sound that mine
could not detect. He seized my rein--forced my horse back upon his
haunches--drew his hunting knife, and ran forward to reconnoitre. The turn
of the road hid him for a moment from my sight. The next instant, I had
sprung from the saddle, pistol in hand, and run after him to share the
sport or the danger. My little Gretchen--he was gone.”
“Gone!” I echoed.
Monsieur Maurice shook his head, and turned his face away.
“I heard a crashing and crackling of the underwood,” he said; “a faint moan
dying on the sultry air. I saw a space of dusty road trampled over with
prints of an enormous paw--a tiny trail of blood--a shred of silken
fringe--and nothing more. He was gone.”
“What was it?” I asked presently, in an awestruck whisper.
Monsieur Maurice, instead of answering my question, opened the sketch-book
at a page full of little outlines of animals and birds, and laid his finger
silently on the figure of a sleeping tiger.