"You have my .303?"

He nods and smiles. At that moment I hear a heavy footfall, as of some
great beast, on the thick dry leaves. The high grass parts. First a
magnificent yellow head emerges, infinitely alert; then the long,
lithe body, a picture of supple grace and immense strength. A superb
spectacle the creature presents, with his lovely coat gleaming in the
hot sun. But the din is drawing near. Down goes the massive head;
wide, cruel lips draw back, and four long primary fangs are bared in a
gruff roar. Then he dashes forward for cover. But too late; I have
drawn a bead on his rippling shoulder and fired.

He is down, fighting and biting at he knows not what; and his roars
rise high above the wild pandemonium of the beaters.

But my shot has not killed. I give the alarm, and we put scouts up
trees to direct the ticklish pursuit along the bloody trail. We drive
herds of buffaloes into the long grass and brush to drive out the
wounded tiger. Our general himself takes charge, with few words and
sure tactics.

"We've got his mate," he says grimly. "I put her on a pad-elephant and
sent her back to camp."

It is growing dark. I hear the sambur-stag belling from the
mountain-side, and the monotonous call of the coël, or Indian cuckoo.
Afar a peacock calls from a ruined tomb, and through all the jungle
concert runs the continuous screech of the cicada.