It is to be hoped that by this time everybody will be aware that the king’s son and the king’s daughter were lion cubs, the survivors, therefore the strongest and the fittest, of three lion cubs in a litter.  It required, you will admit, some resource, courage, and intelligence to do what they had already done, considering their age; but the worst was to come.  Having got out of the frying-pan, they must now face the fire, and be quick about it, too, if they didn’t want to be traced and recaptured at dawn.

Arrived at the river’s edge, they stopped and stared out across the dark swirls and unknown, cold depths.  Lion cubs, as also the young of every other African animal, must assuredly be born with an instinctive and a very lively dread of all rivers and their occupants.  Any horrible invention of death, they must have known, might be expected to lurk there, ready waiting for them in that underworld of dark waters; but if they felt fear, they never showed it, and the pride of their birth held true.  Their hesitation was only momentary.  The terror had to be faced, bravely or fearfully, as they would, but still faced, and bravely it was done.

Slowly and coolly the king’s son waded out into the black, chill waters.  He felt the current, which was strong, plucking like invisible great fingers at his legs; he felt the cold strike through tawny, spotted fur and skin to his belly, but he never looked back.  His feet were whirled from under him; he trod upon nothing, cold, cold emptiness, and that was enough to terrify any grown beast, let alone a baby; but he struck out right manfully, and his fine eyes and face took on that regal expression of haughty determination that you see in the face only of King Leo himself and his mate, and in no other beast in the world.  And the king’s daughter unhesitatingly followed—­a real princess, by gad, sirs!

Steadily the pair swam, heading instinctively, one presumes, up-stream, to counteract the drift of the ever-shouldering current.  There was, perhaps, from two to five feet of water under their sturdy paws; but had it been twenty or thirty, I, personally, believe it would have made no difference.  There were probably also other things under and around their sturdy paws—­things very much worse and less innocent than any water—­things they must have, dimly, at any rate, if not acutely, been aware of in an inbred sort of way; but they made no difference either.

“Make way for the king’s son and the king’s daughter.  It is their will to cross the river.  Hear, all of you loathly horrors, you lurking terrors—­make way.  Who dares check the will of the king’s son?”

Once there came a mighty swirl on their right hand—­or right paw, if you like—­and the waters parted, with waves and the spouts of a geyser, to give up the monstrous nightmare head of a hippopotamus.  Once something cold and leathery and ghastly touched the bottom of their padded feet; and once—­but this was too awful for any expression by pen—­something else, equally cold, but smooth, coiled, writhing, round the king’s son’s left hind-leg, but providentially slid clear again, as he kicked like a budding International.