lenced
him. The difficulty lay in the fact that he supposed his boy and he
were of the same flesh, and that Little Shikara shared his own great
dread of the night-curtained jungle. In this he was very badly
mistaken. Little Shikara had an inborn understanding and love of the
jungle; and except for such material dangers as that of Nahara, he was
not afraid of it at all. He had no superstitions in regard to it.
Perhaps he was too young. But the main thing that the laugh did was to
set off, as a match sets off powder, a whole heartful of unexploded
indignation in Shikara's breast. These villagers not only had deserted
their patron and protector, but also they had laughed at the thought
of rescue! His own father had laughed at him.

Little Shikara silently left the circle of villagers and turned into
the darkness.

At once the jungle silence closed round him. He hadn't dreamed that
the noise of the villagers would die so quickly. Although he could
still see the flame of the fire at the village gate behind him, it was
almost as if he had at once dropped off into another world. Great
flowers poured perfume down upon him, and at seemingly a great
distance he heard the faint murmur of the wind.

At first, deep down in his heart, he had really not intended to go all
the way. He had expected to steal clear to the outer edge of the
firelight; and then stand listening to the darkness for such
impressions as the jungle would choose to give him. But there had been
no threshold, no interlude of preparation. The jungle in all its
mystery had folded about him at once.

He trotted softly down the elephant trail, a dim, fleet shadow that
even the keen eyes of Nahara could scarcely have seen. At first he was
too happy to be afraid. He was always happy when the jungle closed
round him. Besides, if Nahara had killed, she would be full-fed by now
and not to be feared. Little Shikara hastened on, trembling all over
with a joyous sort of excitement.

If a single bird had flapped its wings in the branches, if one little
rodent had stirred in the underbrush, Little Shikara would likely have
turned back. But the jungle-gods, knowing their son, stilled all the
forest voices. He crept on, still looking now and again over his
shoulder to see the village fire. It still made a bright yellow
triangle in the dusk behind him. He didn't stop to think that he was
doing a thing most grown natives and many white men would not have
dared to do--to follo