There was the brute within twelve feet of me, and what is more, it saw me as I saw it, and stopped, still holding the ox by the throat.

“What a chance for Allan Quatermain!  Of course he shot it dead,” one can fancy anyone saying who knows me by repute, also that by the gift of God I am handy with a rifle.  Well, indeed, it should have been, for even with the small-bore piece that I carried, a bullet ought to have pierced through the soft parts of its throat to the brain and to have killed that lion as dead as Julius Caesar.  Theoretically the thing was easy enough; indeed, although I was startled for a moment, by the time that I had the rifle to my shoulder I had little fear of the issue, unless there was a miss-fire, especially as the beast seemed so astonished that it remained quite still.

Then the unexpected happened as generally it does in life, particularly in hunting, which, in my case, is a part of life.  I fired, but by misfortune the bullet struck the tip of the horn of that confounded ox, which tip either was or at that moment fell in front of the spot on the lion’s throat whereat half-unconsciously I had aimed.  Result:  the ball was turned and, departing at an angle, just cut the skin of the lion’s neck deeply enough to hurt it very much and to make it madder than all the hatters in the world.

Dropping the ox, with a most terrific roar it came over the wall at me—­I remember that there seemed to be yards of it—­I mean of the lion—­in front of which appeared a cavernous mouth full of gleaming teeth.

I skipped back with much agility, also a little to one side, because there was nothing else to do, reflecting in a kind of inconsequent way, that after all Zikali’s Great Medicine was not worth a curse.  The lion landed on my side of the wall and reared itself upon its hind legs before getting to business, towering high above me but slightly to my left.

Then I saw a strange thing.  A shadow thrown by the moon flitted past me—­all I noted of it was the distorted shape of a great, lifted axe, probably because the axe came first.  The shadow fell and with it another shadow, that of a lion’s paw dropping to the ground.  Next there was a most awful noise of roaring, and wheeling round I saw such a fray as never I shall see again.  A tall, grim, black man was fighting the great lion, that now lacked one paw, but still stood upon its hind legs, striking at him with the other.

The man, who was absolutely silent, dodged the blow and hit back with the axe, catching the beast upon the breast with such weight that it came to the ground in a lopsided fashion, since now it had only one fore-foot on which to light.

The axe flashed up again and before the lion could recover itself, or do anything else, fell with a crash upon its skull, sinking deep into the head.  After this all was over, for the beast’s brain was cut in two.

“I am here at the appointed time, Macumazahn,” said Umslopogaas, for it was he, as with difficulty he dragged his axe from the lion’s severed skull, “to find you watching by night as it is reported that you always do.”