and rustled away in the thickets beside him.

"There is little use of going on," he said. "It is growing too dark.
But there will be killings before the dawn if we don't get her first."

The servant stood still, waiting. It was not his place to advise his
master.

"If we leave her, she'll come again before the dawn. Many of the
herders haven't returned--she'll get one of them sure. At least we may
cross the creek and get a view of the great fields. She is certain to
cross them if she has heard the beaters."

In utter silence they went on. One hundred yards farther they came to
the creek, and both strode in together to ford.

The water was only knee-deep, but Warwick's boots sank three inches in
the mud of the bottom. And at that instant the gods of the jungle,
always waiting with drawn scimitar for the unsuspecting, turned
against them.

Singhai suddenly splashed down into the water, on his hands and knees.
He did not cry out. If he made any sound at all, it was just a
shivering gasp that the splash of water wholly obscured. But the thing
that brought home the truth to Warwick was the pain that flashed,
vivid as lightning, across his dark face; and the horror of death that
left its shadow. Something churned and writhed in the mud; and then
Warwick fired.

Both of them had forgotten Mugger, the crocodile, that so loves to