One evening, however, at about six o’clock, as they were going through a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made 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 would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?

Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point.  In the dry river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling the pebbles.  Terror overtook him.  He rose to his feet, fired both barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout, leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most overwhelming panic that ever affected a hero.