t is called Arab hospitality.

But always no lions, no more than on London Bridge.

Nevertheless, the Tarasconian did not grow disheartened. Ever bravely
diving more deeply into the South, he spent the days in beating up the
thickets, probing the dwarf-palms with the muzzle of his rifle, and
saying "Boh!" to every bush. And every evening, before lying down, he
went into ambush for two or three hours. Useless trouble, however, for
the lion did not show himself.

One evening, though, going on six o'clock, as the caravan scrambled
through a violet-hued mastic-grove, where fat quails tumbled about in
the grass, drowsy through the heat, Tartarin of Tarascon fancied he
heard though afar and very vague, and thinned down by the breeze--that
wondrous roaring to which he had so often listened by Mitaine's
Menagerie at home.

At first the hero feared he was dreaming; but in an instant further the
roaring recommenced more distinct, although yet remote; and this time
the camel's hump shivered in terror, and made the tinned meats and arms
in the cases rattle, whilst all the dogs in the camps were heard howling
in every corner of the horizon.

Beyond doubt this was the lion.

Quick, quick! to the ambush. There was not a minute to lose.

Near at hand there happened to be an old marabout's, or saint's, tomb,
with a white cupola, and the defunct's large yellow slippers placed in a
niche over the door, and a mass of odd offerings--hems of blankets, gold
thread, red hair--hung on the wall.

Tartarin of Tarascon left his prince and his camel and went in search of
a good spot for lying in wait. Prince Gregory wanted to follow him, but
the Tarasconian refused, bent on confronting Leo alone. But still he
besought His Highness not to go too far away, and, as a measure of
foresight, he entrusted him with his pocket-book, a good-sized one, full
of precious papers and bank-notes, which he feared would get torn by the
lion's claws. This done, our hero looked up a good place.

A hundred steps in front of the temple a little clump of rose-laurel
shook in the twilight haze on the edge of a rivulet all but dried up.
There it was that Tartarin went and ensconced himself, one knee on the
ground, according to the regular rule, his rifle in his hand, and his
huge hunting-knife stuck boldly before him in the sandy bank.

Night fell.

The rosy tint of nature changed into violet, and then into dark blue.
A pretty pool of clear water gleamed like