tion. Life was so sweet; there
was so much to do; and poor Joe would be so lonely and broken-hearted
when he found out his brother's fate. It would be, he knew, the last
terrible blow of all to the expedition. For himself, he was so stunned
by horror and exertion that he could not feel that there would be much
pain; all he hoped for was that the seizure would be sudden and the end
instantaneous; but still he kept up that slow, steady double over the
burning sand, with his heavy gun going jerk, jerk, giving him, as it
were, regular blows across the loins to urge him on.

Another wild glance back, and the lion growing bigger; and another weary
stare in advance, and the cob still so distant, but clearer now to his
vision, though certainly shuffling away.

Again he looked back, to see the savage beast grovelling itself along,
with its lower parts almost touching the sand, and seeming more than
ever to keep up that stealthy, cat-like approach, so as to get within
springing distance.

And now a reaction began to take place, and through his teeth Dyke's hot
breath panted out:

"I don't care; I'll die game. He shan't kill me for nothing."

His hand went to his belt, and he snatched out his keen sheath-knife,
determined to hold it with both fists before him, and face the lion when
the beast sprang. It would not save his life, he felt; but the brute
would suffer, and that was some consolation, even then. Then his left
hand went to his throat, to tear open his collar, so that he could
breathe more freely; but it did not reach the button, for it struck
against the big metal whistle which hung from his neck by a twisted
leather thong.

His next act was almost involuntary. He placed the metal to his lips,
and blew with all his might a long, trilling whistle, despairing as he
blew, but still with a faint hope that the shrill sound would reach
through the clear air to where the cob was labouring along with its
hobbled feet.

The result sent a thrill through the boy, for to his great joy he saw
that the cob had stopped.

No: it was fancy.

No: it was no imagination, no fancy of his disordered brain; for the
moment before, the horse was end on to him; now, it had turned
broadside, and was gazing back; and in his excitement Dyke whistled
again with all the breath he could put into the act.

The horse still stared back. It had heard the familiar call, and Dyke
felt another thrill of hope, for on looking back he saw tha