noise or haste. Remember, the clink of a finger-ring on a barrel or
the gleam of the sun on a bright muzzle may turn them. That's all,
gentlemen."

We troop out to distribute rifles to the sepoys, who are supposed to
protect the unarmed beaters. Some of us ride off for miles into the
jungle to the base of the fateful triangle. Others visit the
"stops"--keen-eyed _shikaris_, perched like crows in the big
sal-trees.

Then hark--a shot! It travels like fire, and is answered by a faint
uproar. The beat has begun. We dismount from our elephants for a
steady shot, leaving them behind us in a huge semicircle. Some of them
scent danger, and twirl delicate trunks high in the air. They have
"been there" before! The mahouts sit motionless as bronze
figures--superb fellows, deeply learned in jungle-lore. The triangle's
apex and flanks are in absolute silence, but the base is fiendish with
uproar. Two hundred men are yelling and cursing, roaring and singing,
beating pots and pans, tom-toms and gongs.

Hearts beat a little faster. We look at one another anxiously and
whisper, "Is the beat empty?" It would seem so, for the cunning brutes
give no sign. Yet they must be driven forward if they are there. Ha! a
slender sal-tree to the left shakes with excitement. A turbaned head
shoots out of its branches, with a sudden sound of hand-clapping and
shouting. One of the stops has seen a stirring in the high yellow
grass. The tigers are in the living net!

I call to my side Hyder Ali, my gun-bearer, a lean Pathan from the
Khyber Pass.