“I can’t stand it to let the native be carried off!” Tom shouted back.

“But you can’t see in the dark,” objected Mr. Anderson.  He had probably forgotten the peculiar property of the electric rifle.  Tom kept on, and the others slowly followed.

The natives had at once ceased their merrymaking at the roaring of the lions, and now all were gathered close about the campfires, on which more wood had been piled, to drive away the fearsome brutes.

“There must be a lot of them,” observed Mr. Durban, as menacing growls and roars came from the jungle, along the edge of which Tom and the others were walking just then.  “There are so many of the brutes that they are bold, and they must be hungry, too.  They came close to our fire, because it wasn’t so bright as the other blazes, and that native must have wandered off into the forest.  Well, I guess it’s all up with him.”

“He’s screaming yet,” observed Ned.

Indeed, above the rumbling roars of the lions, and the crackling of the campfires, could be heard the moaning cries of the unfortunate black.

“He’s right close here!” suddenly called Tom.  “He’s skirting the jungle.  I think I can get him!”

“Don’t take any risks!” called Mr. Durban, who had caught up his own rifle, that was now in working order again.

Tom Swift was not in sight.  He had now penetrated into the jungle—­ into the black forest where stalked the savage lions, intent on getting other prey.  Mr. Durban and Mr. Anderson vainly tried to pierce the darkness to see something at which to shoot.  Ned Newton had eagerly started to follow his chum, but could not discern where Tom was.  A nameless fear clutched at the lad’s heart.  Mr. Damon was softly blessing everything of which he could think.

Once more came that pitiful cry from the native, who was, as they afterward learned, being dragged along by the lion, who had grabbed him by the shoulder.

Suddenly in the dense jungle there shone a purple-bluish light.  It illuminated the scene like some great sky-rocket for an instant, and in that brief time Ned and the others caught sight of a great, tawny form, bounding along.  It was a lion, with head held high, dragging along a helpless black man.

A second later, and before the intense glare had died away, the watchers saw the lion gently sink down, as though weary.  He stopped short in his tracks, his head rolled back, the jaws relaxed and the native, who was unconscious now, toppled to one side.

“Tom’s killed him with the electric rifle!” cried Mr. Durban.

“Bless my incandescent lamp! so he has,” agreed Mr. Damon.  “Bless my dynamo! but that’s a wonderful gun, it’s as powerful as a thunderbolt, or as gentle as a summer shower.”

Mr. Durban seeing that the lion was dead, in that brief glance he had had of the brute, called to some of the natives to come and get their tribesman.  They came, timidly enough at first, carrying many torches, but when they understood that the lion was dead, they advanced more boldly.  They carried the wounded black to a hut, where they applied their simple but effective remedies for the cruel bite in his shoulder.