"Oh!" she cried. "Slay him. How proud I should be to return to my people with one who vanquished Nagoola, and wore his hide about his loins as proof of his prowess." "Y-yes," acquiesced Waldo faintly. "But," continued the girl, "you have slain many of Nagoola's brothers and sisters. It is no longer sport to kill one of his kind." "Yes--yes," cried Waldo. "Yes, that is it--panthers bore me now." "Oh!" The girl clasped her hands in ecstasy. "How many have you slain?" "Er--why, let me see," the young man blundered. "As a matter of fact, I never kept any record of the panthers I killed." Waldo was becoming frantic. He had never lied before in all his life. He hated a lie and loathed a liar. He wondered why he had lied now. Surely it were nothing to boast of to have butchered one of God's creatures--and as for claiming to have killed so many that he could not recall the number, it was little short of horrible. Yet he became conscious of a poignant regret that he had not killed a thousand panthers, and preserved all the pelts as evidence of his valor. The panther still regarded them from the safety of the farther shore. The girl drew quite close to Waldo in the instinctive plea for protection that belongs to her sex. She laid a timid hand upon his skinny arm and raised her great, trusting eyes to his face in reverent adoration. "How do you kill them?" she whispered. "Tell me." Then it was that Waldo determined to make a clean breast of it, and admit that he never before had seen a live panther. But as he opened his mouth to make the humiliating confession he realized, quite suddenly, why it was that he had lied--he wished to appear well in the eyes of this savage, half-clothed girl. He, Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones, craved the applause of a barbarian, and to win it had simulated that physical prowess which generations of Smith-Joneses had viewed from afar--disgusted, disapproving. The girl repeated her question. "Oh," said Waldo, "it is really quite simple. After I catch them I beat them severely with a stick." The girl sighed. "How wonderful!" she said. Waldo became the victim of a number of unpleasant emotions--mortification for this suddenly developed moral turpitude; apprehension for the future, when the girl might discover him in his true colors; fear, consuming, terrible fear, that she might insist upon his going forth at once to slay Nagoola. But she did nothing of the kind, and presently the panther tired of watching them and turned back into the tangle of bushes behind him. It was with a sigh of relief that Waldo saw him depart. CHAPTER IV DEATH'S DOORWAY Late in the afternoon the girl suggested that they start that night upon the journey toward her village. "The bad men will not be abroad after dark," she said. "With you at my side, I shall not fear Nagoola." "How far is it to your village?" asked Waldo.