"Where did you turn out this fellow, Gringalet?" asked l'Encuerado, quite seriously. "Don't trust too much to his friendship, for it might be the worse for you; lions seldom fondle any thing without hurting it."
"Was it a lion?" asked Lucien.
"Yes," I answered; "but an American lion, or cougar, known by savants as the Felis puma."
"How I should like to have seen it! Had it a mane?"
"No; the puma is without one."
We were crossing another glade, when Gringalet suddenly rushed between our legs. On looking back, I saw the puma slyly following us.
"Well, upon my word!" said Sumichrast; "does this fellow want to prove that a cougar will attack a man?"
L'Encuerado, who had put down his load, was already aiming at the animal.
"Don't shoot!" I cried, authoritatively.
The puma did not advance any farther, but glared at us with its yellow eyes, its tail lashing its sides with a measured movement, while it displayed a formidable row of tusks. Suddenly it stretched itself along the ground, as if about to play. Lucien was now able to examine leisurely the beautiful tawny color of its coat. It surveyed us with such a quiet, gentle aspect, that it seemed as if it belonged to our party, even pushing its confidence so far as to begin its toilet by first licking its paws, and then rubbing them over its muzzle.