The chief ran; a tall dark
body, with many other bodies watching it. Sir George raised his gun and
pointed it at the warrior, struggling to a shelter from which the attack
could be renewed. Snap went the trigger. With a bullet, the marksman
could shoot a greater seabird, by the head, at a range of a hundred
yards. This bullet caught the black between the shoulders, and he fell
with a thud and a groan. In Sir George, the physical being surrendered
itself again to the intellect. The situation was saved, his wounds stung
him no more to vindication--he was sorrowful, a-weary.
There was no sound after the echoes of the shot had died away, a
spluttering funeral knell. Other natives, laying their spears aside,
sprang from behind trees and rocks to the help of their fallen chief.
Nobody would harm them; the magic had ceased. They raised him with the
greatest solicitude, and bore him off. His head hung on his breast; he
could just stagger.
Faint from loss of blood, Sir George watched the serpent-like procession
twine itself into the inner depths of the forest. Having conquered; he
had to console himself on the victory and bind up his own hurts. These
made him so weak that he must send to the camp for assistance, and he
awaited its coming, a loaded gun on his knee.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72