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"Remember this; I never saw him till I saw him in Turkey, nor did my husband. We were not able to draw any comparison between the unhappy man and the happy man. We were unprejudiced." "I quite understand that; thank you." "It was in the summer. We were living at Therapia on the Bosporus. He came to stay in a hotel not far off. My husband met him in a valley which the Turks call Kesstane Dereh.
Whatever she had been till now, she had certainly never been a weak woman, except perhaps from the absurd point of view of the Exeter Hall moralist. Scruples had been strangers to her, a baggage she had not burdened herself with on her journey. Jimmy! That night Dion Leith had told her that he had seen the eyes of his boy in the stream that flowed through the Kesstane Dereh.
Abdi Dereh, my rifle-bearer, was in the act of shoving the gun muzzle against the lion's ribs for a shot through the heart, when a shot from without the bush we never learned by whom fired, probably by one of the pony men broke his arm and knocked him flat.
"This my first chance at lion, I seized my rifle, mounted a pony, without stopping to dress, and, followed by Abdi Dereh and another shikari, dashed away behind the messenger at my pony's best pace. Arrived, I found the Sahib and about a dozen men, shikaris and pony men, surrounding a dense mimosa thicket no more than thirty or forty yards in diameter.
"You can easily hire a good horse here, but I have one of my own, Selim. Nearly every afternoon I ride." "Were you riding the day before yesterday?" Dion asked. "Yes, in the Kesstane Dereh, or Valley of Roses, as many people call it." "Were you alone?" "Yes." Dion had thought of the cantering horse which he had heard in the lane as he sat beside the stream. He felt sure it was Selim he had heard.
For some distance I could see no more than the length of my rifle before me or to right or left. Presently, when near the centre of the brush patch, Abdi Dereh next behind me, a second shikari behind him, and Djama Aout bringing up the rear, I caught a glimpse of the lion's hind quarters and tail, scarcely six feet ahead of me.
"Sahib McMillan's personal shikari was DJama Aout; mine, Abdi Dereh. At the time of this incident the Sahib had several lions to his credit, while I yet had none. So the Sahib kindly declared that, however and by whomsoever jumped, the try at the next lion should be mine.
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