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“He will never be caught save by one bait,” remarked a venerable man, wagging his long white beard.

“And what is that, O my father?” I asked.

“A man or a woman,” was the startling reply; “and those we cannot give.”

“Yea, but we can!” cried a shrill voice. There was a sudden movement in the crowd, and a tall female figure broke out of the throng, and pushed her way into the open space and the full light of the fire. She wore the usual dark red petticoat, short-sleeved jacket, and blue cloth or veil over her head. This she suddenly tossed aside, and, as she stood revealed before us, her hair was dishevelled, her black eyes blazed with excitement; but she was magnificently handsome. No flat-faced Gond this, but a Marathi of six-and-twenty years of age—supremely beautiful.

“Protectors of the poor,” she cried, flinging out her two modelled arms, jingling with copper bangles, “here am I. I am willing, and thou shalt give me. The shaitan has slain my man and my son. When the elephant is gone, why keep the goad? This devil of tigers has eaten more than one hundred of our people, and I gladly offer my life in exchange for his. Cattle! no”—with scorn. “He seeks not our flocks; he seeks us! Have we not learned that, above all, he prefers women folk and young? Therefore, behold I give myself”—looking round with a dramatic gesture of her hand—“to save all these.”