“And I can’t swim a stroke!” gasped the terrified Wagstaff.
“Nor me either!” added McGovern; “I guess the end has come, boys.”
“I can swim,” replied Bob, trembling from head to foot, “but that won’t help me at such a time as this.”
“Are we going to stay here and be drowned?” demanded Jim, rousing himself; “we might as well go down fighting; every one for himself!”
As he uttered this exclamation he dashed through the tent and among the trees outside, where the rays of the moon could not penetrate, and it was dark as Egypt.
A strong wind seemed to be blowing, though a few minutes before the air was as still as at the close of a sultry summer afternoon. The wind was cool. It was caused by the rush of waters through the dense forest.
It was evident to McGovern and the rest that there was but one possible means of escape—possibly two—and he attempted that which first occurred to him: that was by dashing at right angles to the course of the torrent. If he could reach ground higher than the surface of the water, as it came careering through the wood, he would be safe; but he and his companions knew when the awful roar broke upon them that the waters were close, while it was a long run to the elevated country on either side.
But if anything of the kind was to be attempted there was not a moment to spare. One second might settle the question of life and death.
“Maybe I can make it!” was the thought that thrilled McGovern as he began fighting his way through the wood, stumbling over bushes, bumping against trunks, and picking his way as best he could; “it isn’t very far to the high ground, but I have to go so blamed slow—great thunder! my head’s sawed off!”
At that moment a stubby limb caught under the chin of the frantic fugitive and almost lifted him off his feet. He quickly freed himself and dashed wildly on again with feelings that must have resembled those of the multitude fleeing from before the sweep of the overwhelming lava.