flee away.

"Don't be frightened," I cried, "he can't hurt you; nothing can hurt you
here."

The Hare halted and sat up. "No," it said, "I forgot. But you saw, he
tried to. Now, Mahatma, you will understand what a bloodthirsty brute he
is. Even after I am dead he has tried to kill me again."

"Well, and why not?" interrupted the Man. "What are hares for except to
be killed?"

"There, Mahatma, you hear him. Look at me, Man, who am I?"

So he looked at the Hare and the Hare looked at him. Presently his face
grew puzzled.

"By Jingo!" he said slowly, "you are uncommonly like--you _are_ that
accursed witch of a hare which cost me my life. There are the white
marks on your back, and there is the grey splotch on your ear. Oh! if
only I had a gun--a real gun!"

"You would shoot me, wouldn't you, or try to?" said the Hare. "Well, you
haven't and you can't. You say I cost you your life. What do you mean?
It was my life that was sacrificed, not yours."

"Indeed," answered the Man, "I thought you got away. Never saw any more
of you after you jumped through the French window. Never had time. The
last thing I remember is her Ladyship screaming like a mad cockatoo,
yes, and abusing me as though I were a pickpocket, with the drawing-room