Or perhaps it was hours. The pounding began in his chest and hammered out through his whole body until Pagan thought he would be torn in two. Sick again, he thought. Cursed malaria… The cinchona drink was right there on his campaign desk. Why the hell hadn’t he taken it? Around him the jungle lay in unnatural silence. Only the bamboos moved, rustling in the wind. Like a warning. Pagan frowned, fingering the butt of his rifle, wondering where the white devil was hiding now. His hands slipped in his own sweat, and he cursed. From behind him came the crunch of palm fronds and he spun about, his eyes focused on the dark, restless dance of the jungle. Nothing. Only shadows. More bloody shadows… The tiger could appear anywhere, the Englishman knew, usually from the place one least expected. Pain slammed into him, driving shard-sharp into his brain, destroying his thought and will.
