Tartarin awoke. He had slept all the evening, night, and morning,
and even a goodish piece of the afternoon. It must be granted,
though, that in the last three days the red fez had caught it pretty
hot and lively!

Our hero's first thought on opening his eyes was, "I am in the land
of the lions!" And -- well, why should we not say it? -- at the idea
that lions were nigh hereabouts, within a couple of steps, almost at
hand's reach, and that he would have to disentangle a snarled skein
with them, ugh! a deadly chill struck him, and he dived intrepidly
under the coverlet.

But, before a moment was over, the outward gaiety, the blue sky,
the glowing sun that streamed into the bedchamber, a nice little
breakfast that he ate in bed, his window wide open upon the sea,
the whole flavoured with an uncommonly good bottle of Crescia
wine -- it very speedily restored him his former pluckiness.

"Let's out and at the lion!" he exclaimed, throwing off the clothes
and briskly dressing himself.

His plan was as follows: he would go forth from the city without
saying a word to a soul, plunge into the great desert, await nightfall
to ambush himself, and bang away at the first lion who walked up.
Then would he return to breakfast in the morning at the hotel,
receive the felicitations of the natives, and hire a cart to bring in the
quarry.

So he hurriedly armed himself, attached upright on his back the
shelter-tent (which, when rolled up, left its centre pole sticking out