At last he is in sight.
A monster white-muzzled he-lion.
For a moment he stands ’twixt Harry and the starlight.
Our hero’s hand is shaking. All his nerves are a-quiver, for truth is he is far from well, and the night air is damp and chilly.
Will he miss? The starlight is confusing.
He takes steady aim and fires.
The lion stands erect roaring, maddened with pain.
Quick as a thought Harry seizes the other rifle, and while the lion is still half erect fires again, and the man-eater staggers forward, falling first on his knees, then on his nose, and there remaining—dead.
Harry was a god now in the eyes of these poor people.
In the midst of a large clearing in this swamp-island stood a strange forked, withered tree. Up in this tree a fire was built and lit. Into the open space the dead lion was dragged, and with many an eldritch shout and scream, for hours and hours these savages danced round the dead lion, and the fire that burned in the tree-top.