Next came the final and exciting step of freeing the nets of sand. This was accomplished by yawing the gathering-rope violently from side to side until the net was sufficiently loosened to allow its being dragged across the desert floor. Twice, thrice the sturdy doolahs hurled their bulks on the rope.
“She starts ... she moves!” shouted Whinney.
Once in motion, the sand spun rapidly through the meshes until it was reduced to a small mass in the center of which I could detect two vague, but furiously revolving forms ... lions!
“Spearmen, ready!” I commanded, for it does not do to be unprepared.
Lord Wimpole, express-rifle in hand, was apoplectic with excitement.
“Do we shoot ’em?” he cried.
“No ... no!” I motioned him back. “They will kill each other.”
Sure enough, after a few moments’ fearful clawing and growling the fierce struggle amid the strong meshes quieted down. Two precautionary shots into the net, and the battle was over. At our feet lay the mangled remains of two tawny lions, exactly matching the shade of the surrounding sand.
“For milady’s boudoir.” I said quietly. “In my own country we do it with a sieve; it is much simpler.”
“’Straordinary!” said Lady Wimpole giving me a meaning look from her brilliant eyes, and we made our way back toward the camp voting the affair a complete success.