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III. A Monastery of Lions. AT Milianah, Tartarin of Tarascon alighted, leaving the stage-coach to continue its way towards the South. Two days' rough jolting, two nights spent with eyes open to spy out of window if there were not discoverable the dread figure of a lion in the fields beyond the road so much sleeplessness well deserved some hours repose.
He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome trees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel. What if it were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the town in a state of siege.
For a minute, on the fiery background of the African sky, there was a dreadful firework display of scattered brains, smoking blood, and tawny hair. When all fell, Tartarin perceived two colossal Negroes furiously running towards him, brandishing cudgels. They were his two Negro acquaintances of Milianah! Oh, misery!
He had seen them before at Milianah, and this was their poor blind lion! Fortunately for Tartarin, he was not so deeply in the desert as he had thought, but merely outside the town of Orleansville, and a policeman now came up, attracted by the firing, and took full particulars. The upshot of it was that he had to suffer much delay in Orleansville, and was eventually fined one hundred pounds.
LEAVING Milianah at the earliest hour next morning, the intrepid Tartarin and the no less intrepid Prince Gregory descended towards the Shelliff Plain through a delightful gorge shaded with jessamine, carouba, tuyas, and wild olive-trees, between hedges of little native gardens and thousands of merry, lively rills which scampered down from rock to rock with a singing splash a bit of landscape meet for the Lebanon.
He cried, jumping to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!... Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head! Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky, and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh!
So he proceeded through the broad streets of Milianah, full of fine trees and fountains; but whilst looking up a suitable hotel, the poor fellow could not help musing over Bombonnel's words. Suppose they were true! Suppose there were no more lions in Algeria? What would be the good then of so much running about and fatigue?
Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
Up above, on the ramparts of Milianah, the head of the Arab Department, who was out for an airing with his wife, hearing these unusual noises, and seeing the weapons gleam between the branches, fancied there was a revolt, and ordered the drawbridge to be raised, the general alarm to be sounded, and the whole town put under a state of siege. A capital commencement for the caravan!
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