As long as the chieftain had been sure of his skin, he flung spears and
sang valiantly; but when alarm entered him, those deadly measures were
replaced by a mighty show. On the surface there was vast play of battle,
but inwardly quaking. And Sir George marched forward, his right hand
gripping the gun hard, his lip quivering, his eye burning.
The injured physical man was triumphant over the peace-loving soul, and
anyhow there must now be a lesson. Of all those lines of thought Sir
George was not, perhaps, conscious in his peril, yet, fetching back, he
could trace them as they had worked. Seeking a solution by measures not
violent, he had been given sore spears, whereon his finger tightened at
the trigger, and he was a wound automaton; fixed, stern, a fate on feet,
bearing down upon the chief in the shelter of the rock.
The brandished club was no stop; no more did the skirmishing support of
the clan bring pause to the oncomer. The black general bobbed quite
behind his rock, considering the necessity of absolute retreat. Next, he
snapped off quickly, dodging here and there, as the aboriginal plan was,
to avoid a cast of spears. It was not suited to avoid lead.
Everything had occurred within the space of a few minutes; for such
crises do, otherwise the tension would kill.
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