The combat was to take place a week from that time, and the announcement that the handsome Sicilian was to fight a duel with the grand lion was spread far and wide, even to the borders of the desert, producing a profound sensation.  Everybody, old and young, great and small, desired to be present; moreover, the people would be freely admitted to the garden of the Bey, where they could witness the combat from the top of the terrace.  The duel was to be early in the morning, before the heat of the day.

During the week that intervened, the Sicilian performed every day in the show, instead of two days a week, as had been his custom.  Never was he more calm, graceful and fascinating in his performances.  The evening before the eventful day, he repeated in pantomime his victory over the lion near Damascus, with so much elegance, precision and suppleness as to elicit round after round of enthusiastic cheers.  Of course everybody who had seen him play killing a lion was wild with curiosity to see him actually fight with a real lion.

So, on the following morning, in the early dawn, the terrace around the lion’s pit was crowded with people.  For three days the grand lion had been deprived of food in order that he might be the more ferocious and terrible.  His eyes shone like two balls of fire, and he incessantly lashed his flanks with his tail.  At one moment he would madly roar, and, in the next, rub himself against the wall, vainly trying to find a chink between the stones in which to insert his claws.

Precisely at the appointed hour, the princely Bey and his court took the places that had been reserved for them on one side of the terrace.  The Sicilian came a few steps behind, dressed in his costume of velvet and silver, and holding his club in his hand.  With his accustomed easy and regular step, and a naturally elegant and dignified bearing, he advanced in front of the royal party and made a low obeisance to the Bey.  The prince made some remark to him, to which he responded with a fresh salute; then he withdrew, and descended the steps which led to the lion’s pit.

The crowd was silent.  At the end of some seconds, the barred gate of the pit was opened, and gave entrance, not to the brave and powerful Hercules, but to a poor dog that was thrown toward the ferocious beast with the intention of still more exciting its ravenous appetite.  This unexpected act of cruelty drew hisses from the spectators, but they were soon absorbed in watching the behavior of the dog.  When the lion saw the prey that had been thrown to him, he stood motionless for a moment, ceased to beat his flanks with his tail, growled deeply, and crouched on the ground, with his paws extended, his neck stretched out, and his eyes fixed upon the victim.

The dog, on being thrown into the pit, ran at once toward a corner of the wall, as far as possible from the lion, and, trembling, yet not overcome by fear, fixed his eyes on the huge beast, watching anxiously, but intently, his every motion.