THE "MAN-EATER" 235 



possibility, that the hon, in endeavouring to escape by this new- 

 opening, might spring at us. We had some trouble too in push- 

 ing aside, with sticks, a mosquito-curtain intercepting our view 

 of the interior. 



It seemed a long while, though probably only a minute or 

 two, before I succeeded in distinguishing the outline of the 

 lion. I tired, but as I could not see very clearly the fore- 

 sight of my rifle, I probably missed. The lion gave an ominous 

 growl which was heard and received with mad shouts by the 

 crowd surging around us at a safe distance. The brute bounded 

 to the other end of the hut, but, as it left the hind part of its 

 body exposed, I was able this time to take a better aim and to 

 send the bullet crushing through its body. As it turned to escape 

 by the door, I had time to re-load— I was using a Martini-Henri 

 rifle — and to give it a good shoulder-shot. It staggered, and fell 

 dead in the outer shed. 



The men guarding the entrance, of course, did not know- 

 that it was all over with the man-eater, and they fired off 

 their rifles. There was not much aiming, for one of these 

 bad shots passed close to the Soudanese lieutenant and me. 

 We slid off the roof, and got the men to stop the firing. 



The man-eater turned out to be a lioness. It was gaunt 

 and grim, old and emaciated. It had but five other wounds, 

 in spite of the subsequent fusillade, besides the two inflicted 

 by me ; one of these five shots had carried off the little toe 

 of the right fore-foot, the others were principally flesh-wounds. 

 It required seven men to carry the lioness to where I camped. 

 There was a feeling of joy and relief that the man-eater was 

 slain. I had to remain close to the body to prevent its being 

 torn to pieces by the frenzied mob. Even then one of the 

 Wanyamwezi porters managed to dodge me and to deliver with 

 a club a terrific blow at the dead lioness, smashing in her skull. 

 The women joined in the uproar with their shrill tremulo-screara 

 of " he-he-he-he-he " ad infinitum, only stopping when quite out 

 of breath. This was meant as a sort of triumphal chant. 



It was a strange scene: a pitch-dark night in the heart of 

 Africa, scores of blazing torches lighting up the gloom of the 

 tall forest trees around us, a surging crowd of black faces, half- 

 naked women uttering their shrill cry, in the distance the incessant 

 boom of the Victoria Nile where it foams down the Murchison 

 Flails, the white race represented by one solitary being in this 



