somewhere; the delicate question was, where. I peeped and poked and
looked in every possible direction, with my heart in my mouth, and was
at last rewarded by catching a glimpse of something yellow moving behind
a bush. At the same moment, from another bush opposite me out burst one
of the cubs and galloped back towards the burnt pan. I whipped round
and let drive a snap shot that tipped him head over heels, breaking his
back within two inches of the root of the tail, and there he lay
helpless but glaring. Tom afterwards killed him with his assegai. I
opened the breech of the gun and hurriedly pulled out the old case,
which, to judge from what ensued, must, I suppose, have burst and left a
portion of its fabric sticking to the barrel. At any rate, when I tried
to, get in the new cartridge it would only enter half-way; and--would
you believe it?--this was the moment that the lioness, attracted no
doubt by the outcry of her cub, chose to put in an appearance. There
she stood, twenty paces or so from me, lashing her tail and looking just
as wicked as it is possible to conceive. Slowly I stepped backwards,
trying to push in the new case, and as I did so she moved on in little
runs, dropping down after each run. The danger was imminent, and the
case would not go in. At the moment I oddly enough thought of the
cartridge maker, whose name I will not mention, and earnestly hoped that
if the lion got _me_ some condign punishment would overtake _him._ It
would not go in, so I tried to pull it out. It would not come out
either, and my gun was useless if I could not shut it to use the other
barrel. I might as well have had no gun.

"Meanwhile I was walking backward, keeping my eye on the lioness, who
was creeping forward on her belly without a sound, but lashing her tail
and keeping her eye on me; and in it I saw that she was coming in a few
seconds more. I dashed my wrist and the palm of my hand against the
brass rim of the cartridge till the blood poured from them--look, there