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He
turned
upon
his
knee
,
and
bending
over
the
branch
,
scanned
the
circle
around
him
.
Neither
hound
nor
henchman
was
in
sight
.
Nothing
but
branches
and
bushes
!
He
listened
.
No
sound
,
save
an
occasional
howl
,
sent
back
by
the
coyotés
that
still
seemed
to
continue
their
retreat
!
More
than
ever
was
it
like
an
illusion
.
What
could
have
caused
their
scampering
?
No
matter
.
The
coast
was
clear
.
The
streamlet
could
now
be
approached
without
danger
.
Its
water
sparkled
under
his
eyes
--
its
rippling
sounded
sweet
to
his
ears
.
Descending
from
the
tree
,
he
staggered
towards
its
bank
,
and
reached
it
.
Before
stooping
to
drink
,
he
once
more
looked
around
him
.
Even
the
agony
of
thirst
could
not
stifle
the
surprise
,
still
fresh
in
his
thoughts
.
To
what
was
he
indebted
for
his
strange
deliverance
?
Despite
his
hope
that
it
might
be
the
hound
,
he
had
an
apprehension
of
danger
.
One
glance
,
and
he
was
certain
of
it
.
The
spotted
yellow
skin
shining
among
the
leaves
--
the
long
,
lithe
form
crawling
like
a
snake
out
of
the
underwood
was
not
to
be
mistaken
.
It
was
the
tiger
of
the
New
World
--
scarce
less
dreaded
than
his
congener
of
the
Old
--
the
dangerous
jaguar
.
Its
presence
accounted
for
the
retreat
of
the
coyotés
.
Neither
could
its
intent
be
mistaken
.
It
,
too
,
had
scented
blood
,
and
was
hastening
to
the
spot
where
blood
had
been
sprinkled
,
with
that
determined
air
that
told
it
would
not
be
satisfied
till
after
partaking
of
the
banquet
.
