less fire in his eyes when I vowed that not till I had listened again
to the song of his beloved violin would I stir from my chair. So he
settled back to pay the price and hear the story of Flora Martin and
the tiger.

Luther repeated his account of the book and the story of Brother
Matthias Pennel. He told Perry of Sister Flora and her saintly
character, and of the devastation by the fierce king of the Bengal
jungle. He brought us again to where the frail little woman determined
to fight death with death. And here, in low, rumbling tones, letter by
letter, word by word, we took up the narrative of the adventurous
Dunker brother.

"Thus armed with only a heavy elephant rifle, the property of the
foreign missionary society, and clad only in grace, Flora Martin began
her lonely vigil on the roof of the mission-house, which is used both
as a dwelling and Sunday-school by those who are carrying light to the
heathen in Ballerraderad, which, we must remember, is one of the most
populous provinces in all Injy. This combined dwelling and church
edifice stands at the far end of the little village, and as the lonely
Indian moon was just rising above the horizon, Sister Flora heard a
series of catlike footsteps along the veranda beneath her--for we must
remember that in this part of our globe the nights are strangely still
and the sounds therefore carry for a great distance. Breathlessly
Flora Martin, mindful of the slumbering innocent charges sleeping below
her, and over whom she was watching, leaned out over the roof, rifle in
hand. The footsteps came nearer and nearer and----"

There was a gentle rat-tat-tat on the door. It was so gentle that
Luther thought his ears were deceiving him, for while he stopped