Regarding the two wayfarers with manifest uneasiness, the beast took up its position at the foot of a rock, more than thirty feet in height.

It belonged to an African species distinguished by a black spotted skin, and a black line down the front of the legs.

At night-time, when they scour the country in herds, the creatures are somewhat formidable, but singly they are no more dangerous than a dog.
Though by no means afraid of them, Ben Zoof had a particular aversion to jackals, perhaps because they had no place among the fauna of his beloved Montmartre.

He accordingly began to make threatening gestures, when, to the unmitigated astonishment of himself and the captain, the animal darted forward, and in one single bound gained the summit of the rock.
"Good Heavens!" cried Ben Zoof, "that leap must have been thirty feet at least." "True enough," replied the captain; "I never saw such a jump." Meantime the jackal had seated itself upon its haunches, and was staring at the two men with an air of impudent defiance.

This was too much for Ben Zoof's forbearance, and stooping down he caught up a huge stone, when to his surprise, he found that it was no heavier than a piece of petrified sponge.