The days of that disappearance had just grown into weeks. News would filter through from outside—of battles fought, of rescues effected; of losses inflicted upon the savage enemy: but of the missing man, and those who sought him, came no word, and Clare Vidal, abandoning hope, could only storm high Heaven with supplication for him, whether in life or in death.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
“Where he was.”
Even with the first slip and stumble of his horse Lamont realised that his last moment had come; and, as he lay pinned there and unable to move, he restrained a natural instinct to call for assistance. His fleeing comrades could not render him such, and the attempt would result in the certain sacrifice of their own lives. His time had come.
He was powerless for resistance. His magazine rifle was lying on the ground beyond his reach, and his revolver was crushed beneath him in such manner that he could not get at it. Helpless he awaited his end, agonising and bitter as such must be.
He saw the swarming savage faces, scowling beneath their war adornments, the tossing shields and uplifted assegais, as that dark crowd surged forward, eyeballs glaring and blades lifted, eager to redden the latter in the blood of a hated and now helpless enemy. He heard the guttural death-hiss vibrate upon the air—and then—and then—he saw and heard no more. His horse, rendered frantic with terror, had made a wild effort to rise, and in so doing had so crushed its rider’s leg that the latter had fainted through sheer acute agony.
“Wou! This has gone on too long. He has said that none should be spared.”
“Yet, this one is.”