effort. No lions appeared.

One evening, however, at about six o'clock, as they were going through
a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were
jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far
off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which
he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie
Mitaine.

At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time
one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken
by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel's hump
trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
Into position! Not a moment to lose!

There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with
a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft
of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel,
and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion
single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the
spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet
stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought
his post.

About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an
almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight
breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,