The silence of the night was broken by a roar, and Mark felt that a cloud was interposed between himself and the camp visitant which hurled him violently to the ground. CHAPTER NINE. "SEEN ANY MORE LIONS?" Feeling half stunned, Mark rolled over and over, holding on to his piece the while, and struggled to his feet from amongst the bushes in which he had involuntarily sought refuge. His movements took him through a low, clinging cloud of the smoke of gunpowder, and he heard the rustling of trampled bushes as what he assumed to be his assailant dashed away. And now he grasped the fact that his shot had thoroughly roused the whole camp. The ponies were plunging and dragging at their raw hide lariats, and the oxen were upon their feet, alarmed in the darkness and about to break away; but Buck Denham, the English driver, and the Hottentot were yelling at them, and the black forelopers were adding their shrill cry as they aided in trying to pacify the beasts. In the midst of the noise and confusion Mark heard his name loudly uttered, followed by the words, "Where are you, my lad? Speak up!" "Here--here," he panted. "Oh, that's right." "Not hurt, are you?" cried the doctor, as he grasped him by one arm, and he awoke to the fact that his breathless father had seized him by the other. "Speak, my boy," he cried. "Why don't you speak? Where are you hurt?" "I don't quite know, father? Not much; but it sprang right at me and knocked me back amongst the bushes as it tore away." "What tore away?" cried the doctor. "What did you fire at?" "I am not quite sure," replied the boy excitedly, "but I think it was a lion. I saw it creeping up towards the ponies, and as it reared up to spring upon them I fired." "Yes," said his father sharply, "and then?" "I think I must have wounded it, for I heard it dashing away amongst the bushes." "Well done, boy," cried his father, patting him on the shoulder. "But you are sure you are not hurt much?" "Oh, yes, I am not hurt much, father," said the boy quietly. "The beast struck me on the shoulder and knocked me right backwards." "Then he will be clawed, doctor. Let's get him into the waggon, and have a light." "Yes, by all means. Who's there?" cried the doctor, in the darkness and confusion. "Ay, ay, sir! Me, sir. Off for a lantern," cried the little sailor. "Here we are sir," cried Bob Bacon. "Me, sir, and Peter Dance." "That's right, my lads. Take hold of Mr Mark and carry him into the waggon." "Oh, Mark," cried another voice, "don't say you are hurt!" "Well, but I am, old chap," said Mark coolly. "No, I say, don't do that. Don't be frightened, father, I can walk." "Are you sure, boy?" said the doctor, who had handed the rifle with which he had come out armed to the keeper; and as he spoke he passed his hands over Mark's shoulders, fully expecting to feel the moisture of blood oozing through his clothes.