The torture of the slow death as the circling warriors cut him
to bits with the fiendish skill, that mutilated without bringing
unconsciousness, had no terrors for him. He was inured to suffering
and to the sight of blood and to cruel death; but the desire to
live was no less strong within him, and until the last spark of
life should flicker and go out, his whole being would remain quick
with hope and determination. Let them relax their watchfulness
but for an instant, he knew that his cunning mind and giant muscles
would find a way to escape--escape and revenge.

As he lay, thinking furiously on every possibility of self-salvation,
there came to his sensitive nostrils a faint and a familiar scent.
Instantly every faculty of his mind was upon the alert. Presently
his trained ears caught the sound of the soundless presence
without--behind the hut wherein he lay. His lips moved, and
though no sound came forth that might have been appreciable to a
human ear beyond the walls of his prison, yet he realized that the
one beyond would hear. Already he knew who that one was, for his
nostrils had told him as plainly as your eyes or mine tell us of
the identity of an old friend whom we come upon in broad daylight.

An instant later he heard the soft sound of a fur-clad body and
padded feet scaling the outer wall behind the hut and then a tearing
at the poles which formed the wall. Presently through the hole
thus made slunk a great beast, pressing its cold muzzle close to
his neck.

It was Sheeta, the panther.