“How do you like it?” asked Mr. Linton.
“It’s beastly!” said Norah, with surprising suddenness. “I hate it, Daddy. Such big, beautiful things, and to make them do silly tricks like these; just as you’d train a kitten!”
“Well, they’re nothing more than big cats,” laughed her father.
“I don’t care. It’s—it’s mean, I think. I don’t wonder they’re cross. And you can see they are, Daddy. If I was a lion I know I’d want to bite somebody!”
The lions certainly did seem cross. They growled constantly, and were slow to obey orders. The whip was always cracking, and once or twice a big lioness, who was especially sulky, received a sharp cut. The outside attendants kept close to the cage, armed with long iron bars. Norah thought, watching them, that they were somewhat uneasy. For herself, she knew she would be very glad when the lion “turn” was over.
The smaller tricks were finished, and the tamer made ready for the grand “chariot act.” He dragged forward an iron chariot and to it harnessed the smaller lions with stout straps, coupling the reins to a hook on the front of the little vehicle. Then he signalled to the lioness to take her place as driver.
The lioness did not move. She crouched down, watching him with hungry, savage eyes. The trainer took a step forward, raising his whip.
“You—Queen!” he said sharply.
She growled, not stirring. A sudden movement of the lions behind him made the trainer glance round quickly.
There was a roar, and a yellow streak cleft the air. A child’s voice screamed. The tamer’s spring aside was too late, He went down on his face, the lioness upon him.