be
far Off now; and, indeed, in five minutes' time he did see a whole band
of lion-hunters coming his way under arms.

"Cowards!" thought our hero as he skirted them; "downright cowards, to
go at a lion in companies and with dogs!"

For it never could occur to him that anything but lions were objects of
the chase in Algeria. For all that, these Nimrods wore such complacent
phizzes of retired tradesmen, and their style of lion-hunting with
dogs and game-bags was so patriarchal, that the Tarasconian, a little
perplexed, deemed it incumbent to question one of the gentlemen.

"And furthermore, comrade, is the sport good?"

"Not bad," responded the other, regarding the speaker's imposing warlike
equipment with a scared eye.

"Killed any?"

"Rather! Not so bad--only look." Whereupon the Algerian sportsman showed
that it was rabbits and woodcock stuffing out the bag.

"What! do you call that your bag? Do you put such-like in your bag?"

"Where else should I put 'em?"

"But it's such little game."

"Some run small and some run large," observed the hunter.

In haste to catch up with his companions, he joined them with several
long strides. The dauntless Tartarin remained rooted in the middle of
the road with stupefaction. "Pooh!" he ejaculated, after a moment's
reflection, "these are jokers. They haven't killed anything whatever,"
and he went his way.

Already the houses became scarcer, and so did the passengers. Dark came
on and objects were blurred, though Tartarin walked on for half an hour
more, when he stopped, for it was night. A moonless night, too, but
sprinkled with stars. On the highroad there was nobody. The hero
concluded that lions are not stage-coaches, and would not of their own
choice travel the main ways. So he wheeled into the fields, where there
were brambles and ditches and bushes at every step, but he kept on
nevertheless.

But suddenly he halted.

"I smell lions about here!" said our friend, sniffing right and left.

V. Bang, bang!

CERTAINLY a great wilderness, bristling with odd plants of that Oriental
kind which look like wicked creatures. Under the feeble starlight their
magnified shadows barred the ground in every way. On the right loomed up
confusedly the heavy mass of a mountain--perhaps the Atlas range. On the
heart-hand, the invisible sea hollowly rolling. The very spot to attract
wild beasts.

With one gun laid before him and the other in his grasp, Tartarin of
Tarasco