He had lost in the open attack, but he
still had the resource of a siege. Soon or late he was sure his victim
would have to descend. His victory was only deferred. Back and forth and
round and round the tree he paced, growling fiercely, at times rearing
himself on his hind legs and tearing savagely at the trunk. His open
jaws, slavering with foam and showing his great yellow fangs, were full
of fearful menace, and his wicked eyes glowed like a furnace. His temper,
evil at all times, had been rendered worse by the fury of the chase and
disappointment at his failure. Baffled rage bristled in every hair of his
shaggy hide. At that moment he would have charged a regiment.
Bert settled himself in the crotch of the tree and gazed at his thwarted
enemy with a sensation of indescribable relief. He was drenched with
sweat, his clothes were torn by that wild race through the brush, his
breath came in gasps that were almost sobs, and his heart was beating
like a triphammer. He had looked into the very eyes of death and almost
by a miracle had escaped. For the present, at least, he was safe.
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