“I fear to do so. Our presence may yet be unknown to our enemies, and Thompson makes such a noise, sleeping or waking, that for his safety, as well as ours, he had better remain quiet while he is so.”
“If not conscious of our presence,” I returned in the same low tone, “why are they here? Is it for fishing?”
The missionary shook his head, as he replied, “Scarcely. Why they are here I cannot tell, but certainly not for fishing, for the Kaffirs never eat fish; it being such an aversion to them, that they cannot even fancy other people doing so.”
A few minutes passed in silence, while still the cautious sound approached nearer—yes, up to the very mouth of the cavern in which we were—when with a great gawp, as I peered into the bushes, I ejaculated, “Heaven have mercy upon us!”
“What is it, Galbraith?” asked Mr Ferguson eagerly, bending to my level.
“See,” I whispered, “See; the lion.” And there it stood, its two red eyes of flame glaring in upon us, or rather into the cave.
I felt the tremor in my own frame spread to my companion, and I made an effort to rise so as to be on my guard, but Mr Ferguson prevented me, whispering,—
“Make no noise, Galbraith, he may pass on.”
I shook my head as I pointed to the fresh skin of the hyrax, the smell of which had no doubt attracted the animal. My sign was all eloquent, and like statues—for we felt how utterly armless, and therefore powerless, we were—we waited, our eyes fixed on our foe. Even in this terrible moment, I could not help thinking how justly the lion had been termed the king of beasts. To see him properly, if not comfortably, is to see him free in his native land. The grandness of his head, the rich tawny hue, the eyes bright as fire, the graceful, flowing mane, are beauties of nature which are lost when the fierce bold spirit is caged.
But I had little time, had I had inclination, to take a longer survey, for with his flexible yet massive paw he crushed down the remaining barrier of mimosa, then crouching prepared to spring.