Part 20 (1/2)
Half instinctively the unseen spectator put up his piece, then dropped it again. He might shoot the reptile, but what then? All their plans would be upset--the villages would be alarmed, and his own life greatly jeopardized. Too steep a price by far to pay, to save one wretched little black imp from being devoured by a crocodile, he told himself.
The road to wealth did not lie that way; and the cruel sneer that drooped his lips as he lowered his weapon was not good to behold, as he stood up to witness the end of this impromptu hunt, whose quarry was human.
The boys on the bank were shouting and screaming, partly for help, partly in the hope of scaring the hideous saurian. That wily reptile, however, heeded them not one atom. His great jaws opened and closed with a snap--but not on the crunch of human flesh, not on the crackle of human bones. The wretched little native, with incredible dexterity, had swerved and dived, just eluding the hungry jaws by no more than a hair's breadth. But to what avail?
For the smooth surface of the lagoon was now rippling into long furrow-like waves. Dark objects were gliding through the water with noiseless rapidity, converging on the point where the human quarry had now risen to breathe. More of the dreadful reptiles, with which the lagoons were swarming, had found out there was prey, and were bearing down to obtain their share. From his concealment, Laurence could see it all--the glistening of the hideous snouts, the round woolly head and staring, terror-stricken eyeb.a.l.l.s of the miserable little victim. Then, with a wild, piercing, soul-curdling shriek, the latter disappeared, and there arose to the surface a boil of foam, bubbling upon the slimy water in a bright red stain. Below, in the depths, the crocodiles were rending asunder their unexpected prey.
”The moral of that episode,” said the concealed spectator to himself, as he turned away, ”is that little boys should not play too near the bank.
No, there is yet another--the incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time in which the refined and civilized being can turn into a stony-hearted demon; and the causes which accomplish such transmogrification are twain--the parting with all his illusions, and the parting with all his cash.”
These ruminations were cut short in a manner that was violent, not to say alarming. Two spears whizzed past him with a vicious, angry hiss, one burying itself deep in the stem of the tree-fern just behind him, the other flying into empty s.p.a.ce, but grazing his ear by very few inches indeed. Then, in the wild, barking, hoa.r.s.e-throated yell, blood-curdling in its note of hate and fury, Laurence Stanninghame realized that he was in a tight place--a very tight place.
CHAPTER XV.
AN AWAKENING.
Ten or a dozen tall savages were advancing through the somewhat spa.r.s.e scrub. Yielding to a first impulse of self-preservation, Laurence, quick as thought, stepped behind the stem of the tree-fern. Then he peered forth.
His first glance, keen and quick, took in every detail. His a.s.sailants were fine warrior-like men, ferocious looking, in great crested headgear of plumes. Their bodies were adorned with cow-hair circlets, but, save for a short kilt of cat's-tails and hide, they were quite unclad. They carried large s.h.i.+elds of the Zulu pattern, and a sheaf of gleaming spears--some light, others heavy and strong with the blade like a cutla.s.s.
Who, what could they be? he wondered. They were too fine and stately of aspect--with their lofty, commanding brows, and clear, full glance--to belong to any of the tribes around. They were not w.a.n.goni--they wore too striking a look to come of even that fine race. Who could they be?
His conjectures on that head, rapid as they were, ceased abruptly, for a perfect volley of spears came whizzing about him, several burying their heads deep within the stem of the tree-fern. Well indeed for him that he had so rapidly placed even that slight rampart between himself and his enemies.
Deeming parley better than fight, under the circ.u.mstances, Laurence began quickly upon them in a mixture of Swahili and Zulu, declaring that he could be no enemy to them or to their race. But a loud mocking laugh drowned his words; and, seeing that the savages had suddenly half crouched behind their s.h.i.+elds for a charge, his quick, resourceful brain grasped the situation at once. A puff of smoke, a jet of flame from behind the tree-fern. One of the warriors fell forward on his s.h.i.+eld, beating the earth with his great limbs in the throes of death.
They had hardly reckoned upon this. Crouching low, now they glide away among the scrub, keeping well within cover. But that solitary, determined man, flattened there against the tree-fern, draws no hope from this. Their manoeuvre is a simple one enough. They are going to enfilade the position. Surrounded on all sides, and by such foes as these, where will he be? for he has no cover.
But in Laurence Stanninghame's stern eyes there is a lurid battle-glow, a very demon light. His enemies will have his life, but they will purchase it at a long price. A dead silence now reigns, and through it he can hear the stealthy rustle made by his foes in their efforts to surround him. Were he in the comparative security of cover, or behind a rampart of any sort, he might hope, by a superhuman effort of quick firing, to hold them back. As it is, he dare not move from behind his tree, suspecting an intention to draw him thence.
The sun flames blood-red upon the lagoon and upon a flight of flamingoes winnowing above the mirror-like surface, and, as though the situation were not deadly and desperate enough, the s.h.i.+mmer of light and water has, even in that brief glance, brought a spot in front of his eyes, at the moment when, if ever, his sight should be at its clearest and quickest. The odds against him are indeed terrible. He can hardly hope to come through; yet to his a.s.sailants it well may prove the dearest victory they have ever won.
A dark body, creeping among the scrub--just a glimpse and nothing more.
His piece is at his shoulder, and the trigger is pressed. He has not missed--of that he is sure. But the echoes of his shot are swallowed up, drowned in a hundred other echoes reverberating upon the dim silence of the scrub.
Echoes? No. The screech and tear of missiles very near to his own head, the smoke, the jets of flame from half a hundred different points--all this is sufficient to show that these are no echoes. His own people have come up. He is rescued, but only just in the nick of time.
”Look out,” he shouts in stentorian tones. ”Don't fire this way.
Hazon--Holmes, I'm here! Keep the fools in hand. They are blazing at me.”
But the crash of the volley drowns his voice, and the scrub is alive with swarming natives armed with firelocks of every description. Yet, above the volley and the savage shouts, Laurence can hear the hoa.r.s.e, barking yell, can descry the forms of his late enemies--such as are left of them--as they flee, leaping and bounding, zigzagging with incredible velocity and address, to avoid the hail of bullets which is poured after them.
He can realize something more--something which sends through his whole being a cold shudder of dismay and despair. Not his own people are these otherwise so opportune arrivals. Not his own people, but--the inhabitants of the villages his own people are on their way to raid--fierce and savage cannibals by habit, but with physique which will furnish excellent slaves. He has literally fallen from the frying-pan into the fire.
How he curses his raw folly in making his presence known! But for this he might have slipped away unnoticed during the scrimmage. Now they come crowding up, brandis.h.i.+ng their weapons and yelling hideously. Although inferior both in aspect and stature to those they have just defeated, these barbarians are formidable enough; terror-striking their wildly ferocious mien. Many of them, too, have filed teeth, which imparts to their hideous countenances the most fiend-like appearance.
Is it that in the apparently fearless att.i.tude, the stern, even commanding glance of this solitary white man, there is something that overawes them? It may be so, for they stop short in their hostile demonstrations and commence a parley. Yet not altogether does Laurence Stanninghame feel relieved, for a sudden thought surges through his brain which causes a shade of paleness to sweep over his firm, bronzed countenance. What if this were but a scheme to get him into their power?
What if he were not suffered to die fighting, to fall into their hands alive? Why, then, his fate was certain--certain and inexpressibly horrible. He would be butchered like a calf--butchered and eaten--by these repulsive wretches. Such would be his end. Now, however, to make the best of the situation!