mself, Jerry was jubilant over
his success. Rivers was almost envious.

They proceeded, but killed nothing more afterwards, though they saw
much. Among other things, they saw a footprint in the sand which filled
them with interest and awe.

It was that of a lion! During the journey up from the coast they had
seen much game, large and small, of every kind, except the Cape "tiger"
and the lion. They had indeed, once or twice, _heard_ the peculiar
growl or _gurr_ of the former, but until this day none of the party had
seen even the footprint of the king of beasts. Of course the interest
and excitement was proportional. Of course, also, when the subject was
discussed round the camp-fires that night, there was a good deal of
"chaffing" among the younger men about the probability of a mistake as
to the nature of the footprints by such unaccustomed sportsmen; but
Rivers was so confident in his statements, and Jerry was so contemptuous
in his manner of demanding whether there was any difference between the
paw of a cat and a lion, except in size, and whether he was not
perfectly familiar with a cat's paw, that no room for scepticism
remained.

It had been a threatening day. Muttered thunder had been heard at
intervals, and occasional showers,--the first that had assailed them
since their arrival in the glen. The night became tempestuous, cold,
and very dark, so that soon all were glad to seek the shelter of the
tents or of the half-finished wattle-and-dab huts, except the sentinels.
Of these, two were appointed for every watch. Masters and servants
shared this disagreeable duty equally. Particularly disagreeable it was
that night, for the rain came down in such torrents that it was
difficult to keep the fires alight despite a good supply of firewood.

About midnight the sleeping camp was aroused by the roar of a lion close
to the tents. It was so loud and so tremendous that some of the
sleepy-heads thought for a moment a thunderstorm had burst upon them.
Every one was up in a second--the men with guns, pistols, swords, and
knives. There was no mistaking the _expression_ of the roar--the voice
of fury as well as of power.

"Whereaboots is the brute?" cried Sandy Black, who, roused to unwonted
excitement by the royal voice, issued from his tent in a red nightcap
and drawers, with a gun in one hand and a carving-knife in the other.

"Here!" "There!" "In this direction!" "No, it isn't!" "I say it is!"
and sim