hour.  I had passed a bad night, and went out, as I was, to walk on the grass.  There was Miss Westonhaugh’s tent away off at the other end.  She was sleeping calmly enough, never doubting that at that very moment the man who loved her was risking his life for her pleasure—­her slightest whim.  She would be wide awake if she knew it, staring out into the darkness and listening for the crack of his rifle.  A faint light appeared behind the dining-tent, over the distant trees, like the light of London seen from twenty or thirty miles’ distance in the country, a faint, suggestive, murky grayness in the sky, making the stars look dimmer.

The sound of a shot rang true and clear through the chill air; not far off I thought.  I held my breath, listening for a second report, but none came.  So it was over.  Either he had killed the tiger with his first bullet, or the tiger had killed him before he could fire a second.  I was intensely excited.  If he were safe I wished him to have the glory of coming home quite alone.  There was nothing for it but to wait, so I went into my tent and took a bath—­a very simple operation where the bathing consists in pouring a huge jar of water over one’s head.  Tents in India have always a small side tent with a ditch dug to drain off the water from the copious ablutions of the inmate.  I emerged into the room feeling better.  It was now quite light, and I proceeded to dress leisurely to spin out the time.  As I was drawing on my boots, Isaacs sauntered in quietly and laid his gun on the table.  He was pale, and his Karkee clothes were covered with mud and leaves and bits of creeper, but his movements showed he was not hurt in any way; he hardly seemed tired.

“Well?” I said anxiously.

“Very well, thank you.  Here they are,” and he produced from the pocket of his coat the spolia opima in the shape of a pair of ears, that looked very large to me.  There was a little blood on them and on his hands as he handed the precious trophies to me for inspection.  We stood by the open door, and while I was turning over the ears curiously in my hands, he looked down at his clothes.

“I think I will take a bath,” he said; “I must have been in a dirty place.”

“My dear fellow,” I said, taking his hand, “this is absurd.  I mean all this affected calmness.  I was angry at your going in that way, to risk your head in a tiger’s mouth; but I am sincerely glad to see you back alive.  I congratulate you most heartily.”

“Thank you, old man,” he said, his pale face brightening a little.  “I am very glad myself.  Do you know I have a superstition that I must fulfil every wish of—­like that—­even half expressed, to the very letter?”

“The ‘superstition,’ as you call it, is worthy of the bravest knight that ever laid lance in rest.  Don’t part with superstitions like that.  They are noble and generous things.”

“Perhaps,” he answered, “but I really am very superstitious,” he added, as he turned into the bathing connat.  Soon I heard him splashing among the water jars.