kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his
rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil
of the river bank in front of him.

Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to
a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there
glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking
place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could
see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view
which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of
the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals,
and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being
murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was
unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle
shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one's
best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?

Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on
for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry
river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling
the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both
barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout,
leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most
overwhelming panic that ever affected a hero.

"A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!"... There was no answer.
"Prince!... prince! Are you there?".... The prince was not there. Against
the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
camel's hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for