All the Mowgli Stories (Macmillan Collector's Library)

‘What need of the Four, then?’ said Bagheera, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes ablaze, and purring louder than ever. ‘I can hold them, Little Brother. Is it killing at last? The singing and the sight of the men climbing up the trees have made me very ready. Who is Man that we should care for him—the naked brown digger, the hairless and toothless, the eater of earth? I have followed him all day—at noon—in the white sunlight. I herded him as the wolves herd buck. I am Bagheera! Bagheera! Bagheera! As I dance with my shadow, so danced I with those men. Look!’ The great panther leaped as a kitten leaps at a dead leaf whirling overhead, struck left and right into the empty air, that sang under the strokes, landed noiselessly, and leaped again and again, while the half purr, half growl gathered head as steam rumbles in a boiler. ‘I am Bagheera—in the Jungle—in the night, and my strength is in me. Who shall stay my stroke? Man-cub, with one blow of my paw I could beat thy head flat as a dead frog in the summer!’

‘Strike, then!’ said Mowgli, in the dialect of the village, not the talk of the Jungle, and the human words brought Bagheera to a full stop, flung back on haunches that quivered under him, his head just at the level of Mowgli’s. Once more Mowgli stared, as he had stared at the rebellious cubs, full into the beryl-green eyes till the red glare behind their green went out like the light of a lighthouse shut off twenty miles across the sea; till the eyes dropped, and the big head with them—dropped lower and lower, and the red rasp of a tongue grated on Mowgli’s instep.

‘Brother—Brother—Brother!’ the boy whispered, stroking steadily and lightly from the neck along the heaving back: ‘Be still, be still! It is the fault of the night, and no fault of thine.’

‘It was the smells of the night,’ said Bagheera penitently. ‘This air cries aloud to me. But how dost thou know?’

Of course the air round an Indian village is full of all kinds of smells, and to any creature who does nearly all his thinking through his nose, smells are as maddening as music and drugs are to human beings. Mowgli gentled the panther for a few minutes longer, and he lay down like a cat before a fire, his paws tucked under his breast, and his eyes half shut.

‘Thou art of the Jungle and not of the Jungle,’ he said at last. ‘And I am only a black panther. But I love thee, Little Brother.’

‘They are very long at their talk under the tree,’ Mowgli said, without noticing the last sentence. ‘Buldeo must have told many tales. They should come soon to drag the woman and her man out of the trap and put them into the Red Flower. They will find that trap sprung. Ho! ho!’

‘Nay, listen,’ said Bagheera. ‘The fever is out of my blood now. Let them find me there! Few would leave their houses after meeting me. It is not the first time I have been in a cage; and I do not think they will tie me with cords.’

‘Be wise, then,’ said Mowgli, laughing; for he was beginning to feel as reckless as the panther, who had glided into the hut.

‘Pah!’ Bagheera grunted. ‘This place is rank with Man, but here is just such a bed as they gave me to lie upon in the King’s cages at Oodeypore. Now I lie down.’ Mowgli heard the strings of the cot crack under the great brute’s weight. ‘By the Broken Lock that freed me, they will think they have caught big game! Come and sit beside me, Little Brother; we will give them “good hunting” together!’

‘No; I have another thought in my stomach. The Man-Pack shall not know what share I have in the sport. Make thine own hunt. I do not wish to see them.’

‘Be it so,’ said Bagheera. ‘Ah, now they come!’

The conference under the peepul-tree had been growing noisier and noisier, at the far end of the village. It broke in wild yells, and a rush up the street of men and women, waving clubs and bamboos and sickles and knives. Buldeo and the Brahmin were at the head of it, but the mob was close at their heels, and they cried, ‘The witch and the wizard! Let us see if hot coins will make them confess! Burn the hut over their heads! We will teach them to shelter wolf-devils! Nay, beat them first! Torches! More torches! Buldeo, heat the gun-barrels!’