Many fell at this spot, both friends and foes. Blows were given and received which would have rendered any white man hors de combat; not so these wild men. During this last struggle Mat saw more than one knocked down apparently dead, and the next instant this man would be on his legs again, fighting more fiercely than ever.
The yells and shrieks were positively appalling. Mat and his brother, who was on his legs again, had never heard or read of anything to resemble this last effort for victory.
The blacks, both friends and foes, seemed literally to increase in stature as they sprang from side to side to avoid each other’s blows, whilst the countenances of the combatants were positively fiendish.
At this period of the battle it was evident that the Tingura were doing their utmost to kill Dromoora, and in their efforts to accomplish this did not now attack the brothers to the extent that these latter had anticipated.
But numbers told; many of the Waigondas had dropped in that clump of timber, never to rise again, whilst a devoted band rallied round their beloved chief.
The brothers were in an agony of doubt, and Mat had more than once said, “I’ll shoot!” as he handled the gun, which he had snatched from its hiding-place; but Tim had begged him to wait for Dromoora’s command.
At last Mat said, “I’ll wait no longer!”
As he uttered these words, two blacks, one of whom was the last survivor of the Tingura chiefs, sneaked suddenly round a large tree, behind the group of Waigonda warriors, and, with a fierce war-whoop, threw themselves on Dromoora, who, wounded as he already had been in the earlier part of the battle, was no match for this sudden onslaught.
One black had already knocked him against the tree by a blow, which was luckily partly fended off by the shield of the chief; the other was in the act of striking him with a heavy wooden sword, when Dromoora, holding his hands high over his head, shouted,—
“Teegoora!!!”