Josefa was standing in her tracks, quietly reloading her silver-
mounted .38. It had not been a difficult shot. The lion's head made an
easier mark than a tomato-can swinging at the end of a string. There
was a provoking, teasing, maddening smile upon her mouth and in her
dark eyes. The would-be-rescuing knight felt the fire of his fiasco
burn down to his soul. Here had been his chance, the chance that he
had dreamed of; and Momus, and not Cupid, had presided over it. The
satyrs in the wood were, no doubt, holding their sides in hilarious,
silent laughter. There had been something like vaudeville--say Signor
Givens and his funny knockabout act with the stuffed lion.

"Is that you, Mr. Givens?" said Josefa, in her deliberate, saccharine
contralto. "You nearly spoilt my shot when you yelled. Did you hurt
your head when you fell?"

"Oh, no," said Givens, quietly; "that didn't hurt." He stooped
ignominiously and dragged his best Stetson hat from under the beast.
It was crushed and wrinkled to a fine comedy effect. Then he knelt
down and softly stroked the fierce, open-jawed head of the dead lion.

"Poor old Bill!" he exclaimed mournfully.

"What's that?" asked Josefa, sharply.

"Of course you didn't know, Miss Josefa," said Givens, with an air of
one allowing magnanimity to triumph over grief. "Nobody can blame you.
I tried to save him, but I couldn't let you know in time."

"Save who?"