reflections were cut short by the appearance of another head, that of
one of the biggest lions I ever saw, which had the ox by the throat, and
with the enormous strength that is given to these creatures, by getting
its back beneath the body, was deliberately hoisting it over the wall,
to drag it away to devour at its leisure.

There was the brute within twelve feet of me, and what is more, it saw
me as I saw it, and stopped, still holding the ox by the throat.

"What a chance for Allan Quatermain! Of course he shot it dead," one can
fancy anyone saying who knows me by repute, also that by the gift of
God I am handy with a rifle. Well, indeed, it should have been, for even
with the small-bore piece that I carried, a bullet ought to have pierced
through the soft parts of its throat to the brain and to have killed
that lion as dead as Julius Cæsar. Theoretically the thing was easy
enough; indeed, although I was startled for a moment, by the time that
I had the rifle to my shoulder I had little fear of the issue, unless
there was a miss-fire, especially as the beast seemed so astonished that
it remained quite still.

Then the unexpected happened as generally it does in life, particularly
in hunting, which, in my case, is a part of life. I fired, but by
misfortune the bullet struck the tip of the horn of that confounded ox,
which tip either was or at that moment fell in front of the spot on the
lion's throat whereat half-unconsciously I had aimed. Result: the ball
was turned and, departing at an angle, just cut the skin of the lion's
neck deeply enough to hurt it very much and to make it madder than all
the hatters in the world.

Dropping the ox, with a most terrific roar it came over the wall at