as heard.  A pillar of flame eight feet high burst out from behind the tent and ran along the ground.  From that conical flame issued those appalling shrieks—­it was a man on fire.  The living flame ran but a few steps, then disappeared from the earth, and the screams ceased.  Apparently the fire had not only killed, but annihilated its prey and so itself.  Crawley sickened with horror, and for a moment with remorse.

But already brutus and Kalingalunga were fighting again by the light of the burning tent.  They closed, and this time blood flowed on both sides.  The savage, by a skillful feint, cut brutus on the flesh of the left shoulder, but not deep, and brutus once more surprised the savage by delivering point with his cutlass, and inflicted a severe graze on the ribs.

At the sight of his enemy’s blood, brutus followed up and aimed a fierce blow at Kalingalunga’s head; he could not have made a more useless attack.  The savage bore on his left arm a shield, so called; it was but three inches broad and two feet long, but skill and practice had made it an impenetrable defense.  He received the cutlass on this shield as a matter of course, and simultaneously delivered his tomahawk on brutus’s unguarded head. brutus went down under the blow and rolled over on his face.

The crouching spectator of this terrible combat by the decaying light of the tent heard the hard blow and saw the white man roll upon the ground.  Then he saw the tomahawk twice lifted and twice descend upon the man’s back as he lay.  The next moment the savage came running from the tent at his utmost speed.

Crawley’s first thought was that assistance had come to brutus; his next was a terrible one.  The savage had first risen from the earth at a spot between the tent and him.  Perhaps he had been watching both him and the tent.  A moment of horrible uncertainty, and then Crawley yielded to his instinct and ran.  A terrible whoop behind told him he was indeed to be the next victim.  He ran for the dear life; no one would have believed he could shamble along at the rate he did.  His tent was half a mile off; he would be a dead man long ere he could reach it.  He turned his yelling head as he ran, to see.  The fleet savage had already diminished the distance between them by half.  Crawley now filled the air with despairing cries for help.  A large tent was before him; he knew not whose, but certain death was behind him.  He made for the tent.  If he could but reach it before the death-stroke was given him!  Yes, it is near!  No, it is white and looks closer than it is.  A whoop sounded in his ears; it seemed to ring inside his head it was so near.  He flung himself yelling with terror at the wall of the tent.  An aperture gave way.  A sharp cut as with a whip seemed to sting him, and he was on his knees in the middle of the tent howling for mercy, first to the savage, who he made sure was standing over him with his tomahawk; then to a man who got him by the throat and pressed a pistol barrel cold as an icicle to his cheek.