The Yankee put his hand to his belt.
“Jupiter!” he gasped, “not a blame one.”
“Then God help us!” Seymour returned. “I’ve fired my last!”
A groan broke from the scientist as he heard the words. “We’re done, then?” he said bitterly.
“Not by a hull piece,” Silas replied. “It’s clubbed guns for the next scrap, an’ hit hard as you know how. I guess this is where your tooth-picks’ll come in, professor,” and, reversing his rifle, the American gripped it firmly by the muzzle.
Seymour followed his example. Despite the millionaire’s bold words, each man felt that the end was near; that the next rush of the savages would sweep them into the fire gulf. Taken alive they were determined not to be, even though they had to leap over the brink into the glowing depths below to escape capture.
Suddenly, while they stood awaiting the end, a sound floated across to them from the further side of the gulf.
It was the baying of a hound!