Scroope only carried a light, single-barrelled rifle, and therefore
could not fire again, I knew, or thought I knew, that my time had
come. I was not exactly afraid, but the sense of some great, impending
chance became very vivid. I remembered--not my whole life, but one or
two odd little things connected with my infancy. For instance, I
seemed to see myself seated on my mother's knee, playing with a little
jointed gold-fish which she wore upon her watch-chain.

After this I muttered a word or two of supplication, and, I think,
lost consciousness. If so, it can only have been for a few seconds.
Then my mind returned to me and I saw a strange sight. The leopard and
Scroope were fighting each other. The leopard, standing on one hind
leg, for the other was broken, seemed to be boxing Scroope, whilst
Scroope was driving his big hunting knife into the brute's carcase.
They went down, Scroope undermost, the leopard tearing at him. I gave
a wriggle and came out of that mossy bed--I recall the sucking sound
my body made as it left the ooze.

Close by was my rifle, uninjured and at full cock as it had fallen
from my hand. I seized it, and in another second had shot the leopard
through the head just as it was about to seize Scroope's throat.

It fell stone dead on the top of him. One quiver, one contraction of
the claws (in poor Scroope's leg) and all was over. There it lay as
though it were asleep, and underneath was Scroope.

The difficulty was to get it off him, for the beast was very heavy,
but I managed this at last with the help of a thorn bough I found
which some elephant had torn from a tree. This I used as a lever.
There beneath lay Scroope, literally covered with blood, though