The subaltern turned eagerly to the children.

“It’s Frank.  Look, Eileen, it’s Frank,” cried Brian.  “He’s killed the nasty dog.”

The little girl, who had sunk to the ground, struggled to her feet and with her brother was swept up in a joyous embrace by the subaltern.  Then, bidding the boy hold on to the sleeve of the arm carrying the gun, Wargrave started back with Eileen perched on his shoulder.  As they passed the panther’s body she looked down at it and clapped her hands.

“He’s deaded.  Nasty, bad dog!” she cried.

Striking a path through the undergrowth the subaltern climbed down the steep ravine that lay between the hill and the Political Officer’s bungalow.  As he struggled up the steep side of the nullah he heard their mother calling the children with a note of inquietude in her voice; and he answered her with a reassuring shout.  Coming up on the level behind the low stone wall of the garden he found Mrs. Dermot and Muriel anxiously awaiting him.

“Mumsie!  Hallo, Mumsie!  Here’s me.  Fwank shooted bad dog,” cried Eileen, waving her arms and kicking her bearer violently in her excitement.

“Yes, Mumsie, Frank killded the nasty dog that wanted to eat us,” added Brian.

Wargrave passed the children over the wall into the anxious arms outstretched for them, then vaulted into the garden.

“What has happened, Mr. Wargrave?” asked Mrs. Dermot, pressing her children to her nervously.  “What is this about your shooting a dog?”

The subaltern told the story briefly.

“Oh, my babies!  My babies!” cried the mother with tears in her eyes, clasping the mites to her breast and kissing them frantically.  The little woman who had many times faced death undauntedly at her husband’s side broke down utterly at the thought of her children’s peril.

She overwhelmed Wargrave with her thanks, while Muriel complimented him on his promptness and presence of mind and then scolded the urchins for their disobedience in wandering away from the garden by themselves.  But the unrepentant pair smiled genially at her from the shelter of their mother’s arms and assured her that “Fwankie” would always take care of them.  Their mother, even when she grew more composed, could not be severe after so nearly losing them; but although unwilling to terrify them by a recital of the awful fate from which the subaltern had saved them by the merest chance, she impressed upon them again and again her oft-repeated warning that they must never leave the garden alone.

But they were not awed; so, bidding them thank and kiss him, she bore them off to bed, her eyes still full of tears.

Wargrave sent a servant to fetch his orderly and the detachment mochi, or cobbler, to skin the panther, the news of the death of which soon spread.  So Major Hunt and Burke joined Miss Benson and the subaltern when they went to look at its body, and numbers of sepoys streamed up from the Fort to view the animal, which had long been notorious in the station.  Lamps had to be brought to finish the skinning of it; and the hide, when taken off, was carried in triumph to the Mess compound to be cured.