But there was no more.

The Mahatma reached at last what looked like a blind stone wall at the end of the tunnel; but there was a flagstone missing from the floor in front of it, and he disappeared down a black-dark flight of steps.
We followed him into a cellar, whose walls wept moisture, but we saw no cobras; and then up another flight of steps on the far side into a chamber that I thought I recognized.

He disappeared through a door in the corner of that, and by the time we had groped our way after him he was sitting in the old black panther's cage with the brute's head in his lap, stroking and twisting its ears as if it were a kitten.

The cage door was wide open, and the day was already growing hot and brassy in the east.
King and I hurried out of the cage, for the panther showed his fangs at us; the Mahatma followed us out and snapped the door shut.

Instantly the panther sprang at us, trying to bend the bars together.