Now the lion is an intellectual beast, at least he has that reputation; but what creature lives, that can take in, and hold, two ideas at one time? But, to have seventeen colors, hues, tints, and shades, moving before him, fairly scrambled the contents of the lion’s brain pan.
As the two hunters leaped, danced, capered, gyrated and turned somersaults before him, the beast lost all power to think or move. His brain became as an omelet. He fell down helpless, whining piteously.
The two camouflaged hunters then went up to his very nose and tweaked it. They pulled his ears, they jerked his tail, and they dragged his carcass around; yet he cared nothing about all this, for he was wondering whether he was a lion; or if not, what?
Before he could unscramble his senses and recover [[212]]his eyesight, the hunters, with help of a score or more of the sturdy negroes, had boxed him up. The cage was slung on the shoulders of a dozen bearers, and borne in triumph to the ship.
On the voyage back to Belgium if, at any time, the king of beasts was surly, or misbehaved himself, or wanted fresh meat in the form of a sailor, instead of salt pork, all that was necessary to make him a good lion again, was for one of the hunters to camouflage himself, in all colors, and then make believe to enter his den to chastise him. But no spear, or red hot iron, or bottle of hartshorne was necessary.
The lion, on seeing the frightful figure, stopped his roaring at once, got down off his hind legs, ceased his rampage, and settled down as quiet as a guinea pig. Sometimes he would even lie down and roll over on his back and flop his paws up and down, as if to say, “Please don’t! I’ll be a good lion, if you won’t tire my poor brain, and give me a headache, with your old camouflage.” But occasionally, he gave a low growl as if swearing at such an impish invention; for, the story-teller is grieved to say that the lion learned some bad language while aboard the ship.
Nevertheless, it was not the beast but the men, that broke the peace; for one was a Fleming and [[213]]the other a Walloon, and they quarrelled as to which part of Belgium was the oldest and most honorable from the time of Cæsar. Each stood up stoutly for his language, and his district, claiming that it was his ancestors that had made Belgium great.
For this time of their quarrel was long before the Belgian people were a true nation, with one flag, one king and a glorious national unity.
One day, the two men got into a dispute as to which of the two, the Walloon, or the Fleming, deserved the greater credit, for confusing and capturing the lion. The contention waxed so hot, that they almost came to blows. Then each one camouflaged himself and tried to get possession of the lion, both entering the cage, but from opposite sides.
But at such a sight, the king of beasts again lost his wits, and had two brain storms at one time, from opposite lobes of the brain. He retreated into a corner, stuck his nose through the bars, and curled up his legs and toes, so that neither of the hunters could get hold of anything but his tail, and hardly more than the tuft of that. Each man grabbed hold of his caudal hair and pulled so hard, that, in spite of the roars of pain, from the poor beast, they split the creature’s tail, half way up, and it never healed, or came together again. [[214]]