“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Buck. “I thought he had come to say, gentleman, as he had found all that the lions had left of him.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “what does he mean?”
“Something wrong with his leg, sir, and I hope one of the great cats ain’t mauled him, because their bites are likely to go bad.”
“Here, show us where he is,” cried Mark excitedly; and closely followed by Dean he caught the black by the arm and pointed.
That was enough. Mak pointed and smiled, and the whole party followed him at the double, Buck Denham grunting now and then as he ran, and pointing out where the undoubted footprints of a lion were plainly marked where the ground was soft.
It was quite a quarter of a mile from the waggons, and in the midst of some dense undergrowth, that their guide stopped short and stood pointing in a way that showed there was no danger in the approach, when Mark whispered, with his heart sinking, “Oh, Dean, I’m afraid he’s badly hurt!”
But at the same moment Bob Bacon sprang in amongst the bushes, trampling them down, side by side with the black.
“Where are you, mate?” cried Bacon, in a hoarse voice.
“Here, lad, here!” And then with a deep groan the poor fellow of whom they were in search said reproachfully, “Thought you were going to leave me here to die.”
“Not likely,” said Mark angrily. “Where are you hurt?”