sturdy supporters, he prepared to receive the brute's charge.

But it had more than its fill, and galloped off; howling. He did not
budge, for he expected to see the female mate appear, as the story-
books always lay it down she should.

Unhappily, no female came. After two or three hours' waiting the
Tarasconian grew tired. The ground was damp, the night was
getting cool, and the sea-breeze pricked sharply.

"I have a good mind to take a nap till daylight," he said to himself.

To avoid catching rheumatism, he had recourse to his patent tent.
But here's where Old Nick interfered! This tent was of so very
ingenious a construction that he could not manage to open it. In
vain did he toil over it and perspire an hour through -- the
confounded apparatus would not come unfolded. There are some
umbrellas which amuse themselves under torrential rains with just
such tricks upon you. Fairly tired out with the struggle, the victim
dashed down the machine and lay upon it, swearing like the regular
Southron he was. "Tar, tar, rar, tar! tar, rar, tar!"

"What on earth's that?" wondered Tartarin, suddenly aroused.

It was the bugles of the Chasseurs d'Afrique sounding the turn-out
in the Mustapha barracks. The stupefied lion-slayer rubbed his eyes,
for he had believed himself out in the boundless wilderness; and do
you know where he really was? -- in a field of artichokes, between
a cabbage-garden and a patch of beets. His Sahara grew kitchen
vegetables.