Was it a lion?  Was it a tiger?  Was it a crocodile?  The Provencal had not enough education to know in what sub-species he ought to class the intruder; but his terror was all the greater because his ignorance made it vague.  He endured the cruel trial of listening, of striving to catch the peculiarties of this breathing without losing one of its inflections, and without daring to make the slightest movement.  A strong odor, like that exhaled by foxes, only far more pungent and penetrating, filled the grotto.  When the soldier had tasted it, so to speak, by the nose, his fear became terror; he could no longer doubt the nature of the terrible companion whose royal lair he had taken for a bivouac.  Before long, the reflection of the moon, as it sank to the horizon, lighted up the den and gleamed upon the shining, spotted skin of a panther.

The lion of Egypt lay asleep, curled up like a dog, the peaceable possessor of a kennel at the gate of a mansion; its eyes, which had opened for a moment, were now closed; its head was turned towards the Frenchman.  A hundred conflicting thoughts rushed through the mind of the panther’s prisoner.  Should he kill it with a shot from his musket?  But ere the thought was formed, he saw there was no room to take aim; the muzzle would have gone beyond the animal.  Suppose he were to wake it?  The fear kept him motionless.  As he heard the beating of his heart through the dead silence, he cursed the strong pulsations of his vigorous blood, lest they should disturb the sleep which gave him time to think and plan for safety.  Twice he put his hand on his scimitar, with the idea of striking off the head of his enemy; but the difficulty of cutting through the close-haired skin made him renounce the bold attempt.  Suppose he missed his aim?  It would, he knew, be certain death.  He preferred the chances of a struggle, and resolved to await the dawn.  It was not long in coming.  As daylight broke, the Frenchman was able to examine the animal.  Its muzzle was stained with blood.  “It has eaten a good meal,” thought he, not caring whether the feast were human flesh or not; “it will not be hungry when it wakes.”

It was a female.  The fur on the belly and on the thighs was of sparkling whiteness.  Several little spots like velvet made pretty bracelets round her paws.  The muscular tail was also white, but it terminated with black rings.  The fur of the back, yellow as dead gold and very soft and glossy, bore the characteristic spots, shaded like a full-blown rose, which distinguish the panther from all other species of felis.  This terrible hostess lay tranquilly snoring, in an attitude as easy and graceful as that of a cat on the cushions of an ottoman.  Her bloody paws, sinewy and well-armed, were stretched beyond her head, which lay upon them; and from her muzzle projected a few straight hairs called whiskers, which shimmered in the early light like silver wires.