hen Violet's image faded, and,
strange to say, the face which bent over his rocky couch, even the hard
bed of death, was not hers, but that of Marian--sweet, pitying,
soothing. And then the poor, clouded brain grew dim again--dim and
restful.

But there are times when a subtle instinct of peril will penetrate even
a drugged understanding. Uneasily Renshaw raised himself on his elbow,
and again looked forth. The sun had disappeared now; a red afterglow
still lingered on the loftier peaks, but the abrupt scarps of the great
mountains were assuming a purpler gloom. Looking up, he noted that the
overhanging rock projected beyond the slope of the ledge, forming a kind
of roof. Looking downward along the ledge he saw--

A huge leopard crouching flat upon its belly, its long tail gently
waving, its green scintillating eyes fixed upon him. As they met his, a
low rumbling purr issued from the beast's throat, and with a stealthy,
almost imperceptible glide, it crawled a little nearer.

With consummate presence of mind, he followed its example. Without
changing his position he felt cautiously for his gun. Fool that he was!
He had left it behind--surely at the spot where he had sunk down in his
stupor. Then he felt for his revolver; but that too, he had somehow
contrived to lose. He was unarmed.

The beast was barely twenty yards distant. The low, rumbling purr
increased in volume. As he kept his eyes fixed on those of the huge
cat, Renshaw felt a strange eerie fascination creeping over him. The
thing was not real. It was a nightmare--an illusion come to haunt his
last hours. He would break the spell.

Again he looked forth. The loom of the towering peaks was blacker now
against the silvery sky--the grey shadows deeper within the desolate
kloofs. He noted too that he was at an elevation of nearly thirty feet
from the ground. In his weakened state there was no escape that way.

The hungry savage beast crawled nearer and nearer along the ledge. The
feline purr changed to a hideous snarl, as with eyes glittering like
green stars from its round, speckled head, it bared its fangs, and
gathered its lithe muscular body for the fatal spring.

And the man lay powerless to avoid it; unarmed, helpless, unable to
stir, to move a finger in his own defence.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE PRICE OF BLOOD.

After the explanations attendant upon Christopher Selwood's awkward
discovery, relations between Violet and her