e lazy by the heat were
jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far
off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which
he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie
Mitaine.

At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time
one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken
by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel's hump
trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
Into position! Not a moment to lose!

There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with
a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft
of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel,
and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion
single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the
spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet
stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought
his post.

About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an
almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight
breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,
kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his
rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil
of the river bank in front of him.

Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to
a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there
glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking
place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could
see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view
which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of
the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals,
and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being
murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was
unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle
shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one's
best, and where wo