The river-bank had descended until the path was almost level with the surface of the water, and passed several patches of reeds which Bill negotiated warily, saying that any one of them might harbour a lion. The white men followed him with growing excitement, and John confessed he felt rather nervous, not knowing but that a lion might at any moment spring up at their feet. He stole a glance at Said Mohammed, and exchanged a smile with Ferrier as he saw that the cook looked decidedly jumpy. Far in the rear came the villagers, eager not to miss the sport, and yet fearful to approach too near. All at once Bill halted and bent towards the ground. There were the unmistakable pug marks. Following the track with his eyes, but without moving from the spot, after a few moments he stretched out his spear towards a clump of trees about a hundred yards ahead, whispering, "Simba!" Neither John nor Ferrier could at first distinguish the lion, but presently two lionesses sprang out of the undergrowth, and made off with long low bounds across the plain. For a moment the white men watched their graceful movements with admiration, forgetting that these were the pests they had come out to slay. Then they set off in pursuit. But they had not advanced three paces when a huge black-maned lion showed his head among the bushes, snarling angrily. He stared at the strangers for a moment or two, then turned with another growl and trotted after his mates. "Come along," said John excitedly. "We can’t get a fair shot at him yet." They set off at a run, not troubling about Bill or Said Mohammed, who followed at a discreet distance. They gained on the beast, but after running some three hundred yards found themselves rather short of wind, owing to the fact that they were in rarefied air at least 6000 feet above sea-level. "We shall spoil our aim if we get puffed," said Ferrier. "Better go slow." At this moment, however, the lion halted behind a tree, as if to check the pursuit of the lionesses, and stood watching the huntsmen, growling in a very threatening way. He seemed disinclined to budge, so John lay down on the path, and bringing his rifle to his shoulder, covered the huge head. "Confound it, look how my hand wobbles," he whispered to Ferrier. "I can’t fix the sight on him. Be ready to shoot if I miss or just sting him, for he’ll fly at us like the wind." He steadied his arm and pulled the trigger. The fierce head instantly dropped out of sight, and the air was filled with such appalling roars that John hastily fired the second barrel, in the hope of finishing the beast before he could charge. He had to aim by guess-work, and fired half-a-dozen shots before the roaring ceased. "Now the others," cried John, shouting to the Wanderobbo to keep his eye on the spot.