This lion of Egypt slept, curled up like a big dog, the peaceful
possessor of a sumptuous niche at the gate of an hotel; its eyes
opened for a moment and closed again; its face was turned towards the
man. A thousand confused thoughts passed through the Frenchman's mind;
first he thought of killing it with a bullet from his gun, but he saw
there was not enough distance between them for him to take proper aim
--the shot would miss the mark. And if it were to wake!--the thought
made his limbs rigid. He listened to his own heart beating in the
midst of the silence, and cursed the too violent pulsations which the
flow of blood brought on, fearing to disturb that sleep which allowed
him time to think of some means of escape.

Twice he placed his hand on his scimiter, intending to cut off the
head of his enemy; but the difficulty of cutting the stiff short hair
compelled him to abandon this daring project. To miss would be to die
for CERTAIN, he thought; he preferred the chances of fair fight, and
made up his mind to wait till morning; the morning did not leave him
long to wait.

He could now examine the panther at ease; its muzzle was smeared with
blood.

"She's had a good dinner," he thought, without troubling himself as to
whether her feast might have been on human flesh. "She won't be hungry
when she gets up."

It was a female. The fur on her belly and flanks was glistening white;
many small marks like velvet formed beautiful bracelets round her
feet; her sinuous tail was also white, ending with black rings; the