In 1843, Livingstone, the celebrated traveller, settled as a missionary in Mabtosa, a beautiful valley in South Africa. Here he met with an adventure which nearly terminated his earthly career.

The natives of Mabtosa had long been troubled by lions, which invaded their cattle-pens by night, and even attacked the herds during the day. These poor people, being very ignorant and superstitious, thought that the inroads of the lions were caused by witchcraft. It was perhaps for this reason that all their attempts to drive away the animals were feeble and faint-hearted, and therefore unsuccessful.

It is well known that a troop of lions will not remain long in any district where one of their number has been killed. So the next time the herds of Mabtosa were attacked, Livingstone went out with the natives to encourage them to destroy one of the marauders, and thus free themselves from the whole troop. They found the lions on a small hill covered with wood. The hunters placed themselves in a circle round the hill, and began to ascend, coming gradually closer to each other as they approached the summit.

Livingstone remained, along with a native teacher, on the plain below, to watch the manoeuvres of the party. His companion, seeing one of the lions sitting on a piece of rock within the circle of hunters, took aim and fired; but the ball only struck the stones at the animal’s feet. With a roar of rage the fierce brute bounded away, broke through the ring, and escaped unhurt, the natives not having the courage to stand close and spear him as he passed.

The band again closed in and resumed their march. There were still two lions in the wood, and it was hoped that fortune would favor a second attempt to destroy one of them. But suddenly a terrific roar echoed from the hill, and the timid hunters quaked with fear. First one of the lions, and then the other, with streaming manes and glaring eyes, rushed down through the wavering ranks, and bounded away, free to continue their devastations.

As the party were returning home, bewailing their want of success, Livingstone observed one of the lions about thirty yards in front, sitting on a rock behind a bush. Raising his gun, he took steady aim, and discharged both barrels into the thicket. “He is shot! He is shot!” was the joyful cry; and some of the men were about to rush in and despatch the wounded beast with their spears. But Livingstone, seeing the lion’s tail erected in anger, warned them to keep back until he had fired a second time. He was just in the act of reloading, when, hearing a shout of terror, he looked round and saw the lion preparing to spring. It was too late to retreat. With a savage growl the frenzied animal seized him by the shoulder, and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. The shock caused a momentary anguish, followed by a sort of drowsiness, in which he had no sense of pain nor feeling of terror, though he knew all that was happening.

The lion’s paw was resting on the back of his head, and as he turned round to relieve himself of the pressure, he saw the creature’s fiery eyes directed to the native teacher, who, at a distance of ten or fifteen yards, was making ready to shoot. The gun missed fire in both barrels; and the lion sprang at his new assailant, and bit him in the thigh. Another man also, who was standing near, was severely bitten in the shoulder; but at this moment the bullets took effect, and the huge beast fell back dead.

All this occurred in a few seconds: the death-blow had been inflicted before the animal sprang upon his assailants. Livingstone’s arm was wounded in eleven places, and the bone crushed into splinters; and the injuries might have proved fatal but for his tartan jacket, which wiped the poison from the lion’s teeth before they entered the flesh.

It was long ere the wounds healed, and all through life the intrepid missionary bore the marks of this dreadful encounter. Thirty years afterwards, when his noble and useful career had ended among the swamps of Central Africa, and his remains were taken to England to be interred in Westminster Abbey, the crushed and mangled arm was one of the marks which enabled his sorrowing friends in that country to identify the body as that of David Livingstone.