spread eagle, the imposing moustaches of brave Commandant
Bravida.

At seeing himself here, as he was, cowardly lolling on a mat, whilst
his friends believed him slaughtering wild beasts, Tartarin of
Tarascon was ashamed of himself, and could have wept had he not
been a hero.

Suddenly he leaped up and thundered:

"The lion, the lion! Down with him!"

And dashing into the dusty lumber-hole where mouldered the
shelter-tent, the medicine-chest, the potted meats, and the gun-
cases, he dragged them out into the middle of the court.

Sancho-Tartarin was no more: Quixote-Tartarin occupied the field
of active life.

Only the time to inspect his armament and stores, don his harness,
get into his heavy boots, scribble a couple of words to confide
Baya to the prince, and slip a few bank-notes sprinkled with tears
into the envelope, and then the dauntless Tarasconian rolled away
in the stage-coach on the Blidah road, leaving the house to the
negress, stupor-stricken before the pipe, the turban, and babooshes
-- all the Moslem shell of Sidi Tart'ri which sprawled piteously
under the little white trefoils of the gallery.