Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all passes off
quietly and successfully. Then, inevitably, comes the struggle. Who
can tell the causes? The tiger is growing old, or is ill fed, or is not
well, or is merely in one of those evil humours to which animals are
subject as well as their masters. One day he refuses to go through with
the performance. First one trick fails, and then another. The public
grows impatient, the man in spangles grows nervous, raises his voice,
stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his terrible slave with his
light switch. A low, deep sound breaks from the enormous throat, the
spectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible limbs are gathered for
the leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence man and beast are
face to face. Life hangs in the balance, and death is at the door.
Then the tamer's heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows are
furrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him from
triumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his
watching wife darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun and
there is no escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome or
he must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as
the least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knows
it.
Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical
support in her extremity.
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