As he arrived at the top, Lucien was practically bent double he was so out of breath, and sweat ran into his eyes, making it hard for him to see. Even so, he sensed that the lion tamer was there, standing waiting on the overhanging rock as if he were expecting them. He watched them approach, as impassive as one of his big cats. Atlas lowered his head, so reluctant to go on that he was almost flat, his stomach brushing the stony ground. He uttered little whines that were not like him at all. Lucien had to yank him up by his collar. And still the Hun did not move, enjoying the spectacle of the two of them out of breath and hauling themselves up towards him. He was staring at them with no hint of ferocity, but, like his tigers, he exuded such an air of authority that neither Lucien nor the dog dared look him in the eye. Le Piqueur had never seen his dog frightened before; he was squirming like a worm. He sensed it was because of an obscure power that emanated from the German, a sort of mysterious force which he used to control his lions. The truth was that the poor dog was overcome by the stench of the big cats. His hunting instinct was totally confused by the maddening scents all around him, the odours exhaled by the feline encampment. He did not know what beasts these were, but his instinct told him to keep well away.