238 TWO DIANAS IN SOMALILAND 
to even try to get my rifle up. It all happened so 
very swiftly. We were a very small party to tackle 
a lion in thick cover, but my man was a little Trojan, 
and did not hesitate when I said I would proceed 
and he must take a hand at the game. He was 
carrying my 12-bore, and I had my .500 Express. 
f First we tethered the ponies, thinking they would 
be quite safe as we should be in the near vicinity, 
then we commenced to beat after a fashion of our 
own. Walking as straight ahead as we could, pushing 
and struggling through where we couldn’t. We fired 
into the dusky depths in desperation at last, but 
nothing happened. It was not until we had covered 
a few hundred yards more before we saw, in a lightening 
of the undergrowth, a sinuous yellow form streaking 
along. The hunter in his excitement brought up his 
rifle. I held his arm. The danger was too great. If 
a wounded lion turned on us here we were done for, 
hemmed in as we were. We saw no more of him, 
he had put some distance between us, and “ on my 
life, had stol’n him home to bed.” 
It was a great disappointment, but, after all, there 
isn’t much sport in courting disaster. The chances 
should be almost even, a little in favour of the animal, 
not entirely so. 
The ponies had untethered themselves — it doesn’t 
say much for the way we secured them, I’m afraid — 
and had betaken their way camp wards. We had to 
track their hoof marks that we might also cut a long 
journey short. Night was closing in, and we wanted 
