Springing to the lion, he wrenched the loathsome bowl from
between his royal jaws. The two Africans, believing they had a thief
to contend with, rushed upon the foreigner with uplifted cudgels.
There was a dreadful conflict: the blackamoors smiting, the women
screaming, and the youngsters laughing. An old Jew cobbler
bleated out of the hollow of his stall, "Dake him to the shustish of
the beace!" The lion himself; in his dark state, tried to roar as his
hapless champion, after a desperate struggle, rolled on the ground
among the spilt pence and the sweepings.

At this juncture a man cleft the throng, made the Negroes stand
back with a word, and the women and urchins with a wave of the
hand, lifted up Tartarin, brushed him down, shook him into shape,
and sat him breathless upon a corner-post.

"What, prince, is it you?" said the good Tartarin, rubbing his ribs.

"Yes, indeed, it is I, my valiant friend. As soon as your letter was
received, I entrusted Baya to her brother, hired a post-chaise, flew
fifty leagues as fast as a horse could go, and here I am, just in time
to snatch you from the brutality of these ruffians. What have you
done, in the name of just Heaven, to bring this ugly trouble upon
you?"

"What done, prince? It was too much for me to see this
unfortunate lion with a begging-bowl in his mouth, humiliated,
conquered, buffeted about, set up as a laughing-stock to all this
Moslem rabble" --

"But you are wrong, my noble friend. On the contrary, this lion is