thrown-back head, the cruel curl of the lips and the glint in the
ferocious eyes flashing in the moonlight, were identical with the
expression and carriage of the man who was her master. Then it had been
admiration without fear, and she had hesitated at wantonly destroying
so perfect a thing, until the quick pressure of her shikari's fingers
on her arm brought her back to facts and reminded her that the "perfect
thing" was reported to have eaten a woman the previous week. And now it
was fear with a reluctant admiration that she despised herself for
according.

A hand on her shoulder made her start up with a cry. Usually her nerves
were in better control, but the thick rugs deadened every sound, and
she had not expected him so soon. He had been out since dawn and had
come in much past his usual time, and had been having a belated siesta
in the adjoining room.

Angry with herself she bit her lip and pushed the tumbled hair off her
forehead. He dropped on to the divan beside her and lit the inevitable
cigarette; he smoked continuously every moment he was not in the
saddle. She glanced at him covertly. He was lying with his head thrown
back against the cushions, idly blowing smoke-rings and watching them
drift towards the open door-way. And as she looked he yawned and turned
to her.

"Zilah is careless. Insist that she puts away your boots, and does not
leave your clothes lying on the floor. There was a scorpion in the
bathroom to-day," he said lazily, stretching out his long legs.

She flushed hotly, as she always did when he made any casual reference
to the intimacy of their life. It was his casualness that frightened