THE DEATH. 
295 
the dogs with her paws, and roaring so that she could 
have been heard a mile off. “Never,” said Morton, 
“was an animal more distressed.” She would stretch 
her neck and snap at the nearest dog with her shining 
teeth, whirling her paws like the arms of a windmill. 
If she missed her aim, not daring to pursue one dog 
lest the others should harm the cub, she would give a 
great roar of baffled rage, and go on pawing, and snap¬ 
ping, and facing the ring, grinning at them with her 
mouth stretched wide. 
When the men came up, the little one was perhaps 
rested, for it was able to turn round with her dam, no 
matter how quick she moved, so as to keep always 
in front of her belly. The five dogs were all the time 
frisking about her actively, tormenting her like so 
many gad-flies; indeed, they made it difficult to draw 
a bead on at her without killing them. But Hans, 
lying on his elbow, took a quiet aim and shot her 
through the head. She dropped and rolled over dead 
without moving a muscle. 
The dogs sprang toward her at once; but the cub 
jumped upon her body and reared up, for the first 
time growling hoarsely. They seemed quite afraid 
of the little creature, she fought so actively and made 
so much noise; and, while tearing mouthfuls of hair 
from the dead mother, they would spring aside the 
minute the cub turned toward them. The men drove 
the dogs off for a time, but Avere obliged to shoot the 
cub at last, as she would not quit the body. 
Hans fired into her head. It did not reach the 
