ting a
private expedition to partake of their delights. Harold was thoroughly
the great child nature meant him for, while poor Eustace sat aloft
enfolded in his dignity, not daring to look right or left, or utter a
word of surprise, lest he should compromise himself in the eyes of the
coachman by his side.

The fair was upon the heath, out to which the new part of the town was
stretching itself, and long streets of white booths extended themselves
in their regular order. We drove on noiselessly over the much-trodden
turf, until we were checked by the backward rush of a frightened crowd,
and breathless voices called out to Eustace, "Stop, sir; turn, for
Heaven's sake. The lion! He's loose!"

Turning was impossible, for the crowd was rushing back on us, blocking
us up; and Eustace dropped the reins, turning round with a cry of
"Harry! Harry! I see him. Take us away!"

Harold sprang on the back seat as the coachman jumped down to run to
the horses' heads. He saw over the people's heads, and after that
glance made one bound out of the carriage. I saw then what I shall
never forget, across the wide open space round which the principal
shows were arranged, and which was now entirely bare of people. On the
other side, between the shafts of a waggon, too low for him to creep
under, lay the great yellow lion, waving the tufted end of his tail as
a cat does, when otherwise still, showing the glassy glare of his eyes
now and then, growling with a horrible display of fangs, and holding
between those huge paws a senseless boy as a sort of hostage. From all
the lanes between the booths the people were looking in terror, ready
for a rush on the beast's least movement, shrieking calls to someone to
save the boy, fetch a gun, bring the keeper, &c.

That moment, with the great thick carriage-rug on his arm, Harold
darted forward, knocking down a gun which some foolish person had
brought from a shooting-gallery, and shouting, "Don't! It will only
make him kill the boy!" he gathered himself up for a rush; while I
believe we all called to him to stop: I am sure of Eustace's "Harry!
don't! What shall I do?"

Before the words were spoken, Harold had darted to the side of the
terrible creature, and, with a bound, vaulted across its neck as it
lay, dealing it a tremendous blow over the nose with that sledge-hammer
fist, and throwing the rug over its head. Horrible roaring growls,
like snarling thunder, were heard for a second or