A moment, and half a dozen
hands had dragged me from the man beneath me, and a supple
savage had passed a thong of deerskin around my arms and
pinioned them to my sides. The game was up; there remained only
to pay the forfeit without a grimace.
Diccon was not dead; pinioned, like myself, and breathing hard, he
leaned sullenly against the wall, they that he had slain at his feet.
My lord rose, and stood over against me. His rich doublet was torn
and dragged away at the neck, and my blood stained his hand and
arm. A smile was upon the face that had made him master of a
kingdom's master.
"The game was long," he said, "but I have won at last. A long
good-night to you, Captain Percy, and a dreamless sleep!"
There was a swift backward movement of the Indians, and a loud
"The panther, sir! Have a care!" from Diccon. I turned. The
panther, maddened by the noise and light, the shifting figures, the
blocked doors, the sight and smell of blood, the blow that had been
dealt it, was crouching for a spring. The red-brown hair was
bristling, the eyes were terrible. I was before it, but those glaring
eyes had marked me not. It passed me like a bar from a catapult,
and the man whose heel it had felt was full in its path. One of its
forefeet sank in the velvet of the doublet; the claws of the other
entered the flesh below the temple, and tore downwards and
across.
Pages:
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333