uld 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
such an opportunity.

Chapter 29.

The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light
our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and
would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb,
betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a
one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the
first time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts
about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by
misery he shed bitter tears.

While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by
the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumping
to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!...
Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head!
Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky,
and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran
towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh!
Misere!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent
of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.

This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical