great spoor of the tiger and then his own. Here the beast had
halted, and here it had leapt aside. Here his own footmarks
stopped. Here his heels had come together.

It had been no dream.

There was a white mist upon the water of the old tank like the bloom
upon a plum, and the trees about it seemed smaller and the sand-
space wider and rougher than they had seemed in the moonshine. Then
the ground had looked like a floor of frosted silver.

And thence he went on upward through the fresh morning, until just
as the east grew red with sunrise, he reached the cart-track from
which he had strayed overnight. It was, he found, a longer way back
to the camp than he remembered it to be. Perhaps he had struck the
path further along. It curved about and went up and down and
crossed three ravines. At last he came to that trampled place of
littered white blossom under great trees where he had seen the
bears.

The sunlight went before him in a sheaf of golden spears, and his
shadow, that was at first limitless, crept towards his feet. The
dew had gone from the dead grass and the sand was hot to his dry
boots before he came back into the open space about the great banyan
and the tents. And Kepple, refreshed by a night's rest and coffee,
was wondering loudly where the devil he had gone.



THE STORY