the lion's ordinary voice seems to be emitted by some
being of incalculable immensity. It resembles a series of deep,
half-smothered detonations linked together by querulous gruntle. It is
difficult to realize that the sound originates from anything less huge
than a mammoth.

Three times only have I heard a lion roar wrathfully. The sound is
harsh and shattering, and is pitched in a higher key than that of the
growl. To me the growl was far more awe-inspiring than the roar; it
carried a suggestion of stealth combined with latent ferocity and
unimaginable force in reserve. The adjective "thunderous" does not fit
the roar at all; the latter suggests, more than anything else, the
tones of a mighty, cavernous brass trumpet. Most terrifying, however,
is the suspicion that a lion is silently padding round your camp just
before daybreak, debating with himself as to whether he will or will
not attack.

Yes, it was "when the phantom of false morning died" that I always
dreaded the lion. Indeed, in the early part of the night, when the
awesome voices were audible often in several directions at once, there
was little or no danger. But just before dawn the silence suggested
sinister possibilities. An examination of the ground after day had
broken would occasionally show that a lion had circled round the camp
over and over again, apparently unable to key up his courage to the
attacking pitch. But experience shows that the lion sometimes does
attack, and when this happens it is almost invariably in the dark
interval just before the east begins to pale.

The reason for this is easily discovered if one looks at the thing from
the lion's point of view. I am convinced that leaving out the cases in
which a lion is a confirmed man-eater, is wounded, or is cornered this
animal never attacks man unless (1) when it is too old or stiff to
catch and pull down game, or (2) when game of every description
simultaneously vacates a given area and stampedes to a great distance,
a thing which not infrequently happens.

Here, then, we have a desperately hungry brute; he may, possibly, have
gone several days without food. He winds a camp of human beings,
creatures he knows to be edible but which, I firmly believe, he hates
the idea of eating as much as the ordinary man would hate the idea of
eating a monkey. But the lion has been prowling all night, has perhaps
prowled for a succession of hungry nights, and he knows that day is at
hand. Moreover,