Then the new-comer moved.  Then he began to move, and—­here!  It was just like the buzzing of a fly in a tumbler.  Certainly you could say that he was still there, but you could not swear that you actually saw him.

The first that the polecat knew of him was that red-hot fork-like feeling that means fangs in the back of your neck.  The polecat spun on herself, and bit, quick as an electric needle, at the spotted thing, that promptly ceased to be there, and, to use the professional term, she “made the stink” for all she was worth.  She forgot all about the long female would-be slayer of her children, and the genet was mightily thankful to drag herself clear, but she would not have been she if she had failed to get her fangs home, as a parting shot, before she went.

Then, I fancy, she was ill; and, upon my soul, I don’t wonder.  It was enough to asphyxiate a whale-factory hand.  But the male genet was not ill, or, if he was, he was moving from place to place too quickly to give the fact away; and by the time he shot up a tree, like a long, rippling, cream and tawny-dappled, banded line, he left that polecat considerably redder than when he found her, and weak, as if she had been bitten by leeches.  The polecat had certainly saved her young, or thought she had, although I cannot swear that the female genet had really meant them harm; but she did not look as if she had saved much else.  However, she held the field of battle, and the foe had fled, and that is supposed to be the sign of victory; but that had been done by her “gassing” methods, so to speak, not by fighting alone.

Rippling about among the branches, an incarnation of grace personified, and hunting for her by nose alone, for in the moonlight her exquisite creamy, dappled coat was invisible—­a real piece of magic, this—­the male genet quickly found her for whom he sought.  She remained low, lying along a bough, line for line, shadow-patch for shadow-patch, flat as the very bark, and as undulating, until she felt sure that he would run over her; then she rose, spitting and snarling in his face, cat-like and vicious.

It was a poor kind of thanks for having saved her life, perhaps, but it was her way—­then.  And, anyway, who can blame her?  She had never met any living creature that was not a foe or an armed “unbenevolent” neutral in all her life, and she did not know that any other category or creature existed, the recent fight notwithstanding.

But the male genet neither ran nor fought.  He dodged her snap, by a tenth of an inch, almost without seeming to move, and there he stood looking at her meekly.  She leapt to him, and he shot off, as she arrived upon, the place where he had been.  Perhaps she knew that only a genet, or a mongoose, could do that trick in a manner at once so machine-like and precise; and after that she merely sat, bent in a curve, with her lips up.  But her spring had given her away, and he saw that she was lame.  Perhaps he saw, too, the gleam of hunger, the wild, cruel gleam that forgets all else, in her eyes; but who am I to say whether he understood it?