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Updated: June 2, 2025
Who could doubt it was the lion? for now its four short legs could plainly be seen, its formidable mane and its large eyes gleaming in the gloom. Up went his gun into position. Fire's the word! and bang, bang! it was done. And immediately there was a leap back and the drawing of the hunting-knife. To the Tarasconian's shot a terrible roaring replied.
On the morrow early after this evening at the Platanes, Prince Gregory was in the Tarasconian's bedroom. "Quick! Dress yourself quickly! Your Moorish beauty is found, Her name is Baya. She's scarce twenty as pretty as a love, and already a widow." "A widow! What a slice of luck!" joyfully exclaimed Tartarin, who dreaded Oriental husbands. "Ay, but woefully closely guarded by her brother."
On perceiving the Tarasconian's warlike equipment, the little gentleman, who was seated over against him, appeared excessively surprised, and set to studying him with burdensome persistency. The horses were taken out and the fresh ones put in, whereupon the coach started off again. The little weasel still gazed at Tartarin, who in the end took snuff at it.
This was the domesticated lion, the poor blind beggar of the Mohammed Monastery, whom the Tarasconian's bullets had knocked over. This time, spite of Mahound, Tartarin escaped neatly. Drunk with fanatical fury, the two African collectors would have surely beaten him to pulp had not the god of chase and war sent him a delivering angel in the shape of the rural constable of the Orleansville commune.
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