“We soon reached the kloof, which was about three hundred yards in length and but sparsely wooded, and then the real fun began.  There might be a lion behind every bush—­there certainly were four lions somewhere; the delicate question was, where.  I peeped and poked and looked in every possible direction, with my heart in my mouth, and was at last rewarded by catching a glimpse of something yellow moving behind a bush.  At the same moment, from another bush opposite me out burst one of the cubs and galloped back towards the burnt pan.  I whipped round and let drive a snap shot that tipped him head over heels, breaking his back within two inches of the root of the tail, and there he lay helpless but glaring.  Tom afterwards killed him with his assegai.  I opened the breech of the gun and hurriedly pulled out the old case, which, to judge from what ensued, must, I suppose, have burst and left a portion of its fabric sticking to the barrel.  At any rate, when I tried to get in the new cartridge it would only enter half-way; and—­would you believe it?—­this was the moment that the lioness, attracted no doubt by the outcry of her cub, chose to put in an appearance.  There she stood, twenty paces or so from me, lashing her tail and looking just as wicked as it is possible to conceive.  Slowly I stepped backwards, trying to push in the new case, and as I did so she moved on in little runs, dropping down after each run.  The danger was imminent, and the case would not go in.  At the moment I oddly enough thought of the cartridge maker, whose name I will not mention, and earnestly hoped that if the lion got me some condign punishment would overtake him.  It would not go in, so I tried to pull it out.  It would not come out either, and my gun was useless if I could not shut it to use the other barrel.  I might as well have had no gun.

“Meanwhile I was walking backward, keeping my eye on the lioness, who was creeping forward on her belly without a sound, but lashing her tail and keeping her eye on me; and in it I saw that she was coming in a few seconds more.  I dashed my wrist and the palm of my hand against the brass rim of the cartridge till the blood poured from them—­look, there are the scars of it to this day!”

Here Quatermain held up his right hand to the light and showed us four or five white cicatrices just where the wrist is set into the hand.

“But it was not of the slightest use,” he went on; “the cartridge would not move.  I only hope that no other man will ever be put in such an awful position.  The lioness gathered herself together, and I gave myself up for lost, when suddenly Tom shouted out from somewhere in my rear—­

“‘You are walking on to the wounded cub; turn to the right.’

“I had the sense, dazed as I was, to take the hint, and slewing round at right-angles, but still keeping my eyes on the lioness, I continued my backward walk.

“To my intense relief, with a low growl she straightened herself, turned, and bounded further up the kloof.