the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived
at a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool
of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large
wound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey!
One of the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called
"Bourriquots".




Chapter 17.

Tartarin's first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was
one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between
a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity.
The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and
falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash
he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great
man tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could
imagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which
was already at death's door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once
or twice its long ears, as if to say "Thank you!... Thank you!". Then a
final tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more.

"Noiraud!... Noiraud!" Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!...
She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation
lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for
her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly