It only needed that touch to tell Geoffrey that he was at grips with the native. Down the fellow came on the slippery rocks, and the next instant the two were engaged in a life or death struggle.
Young, strong, vigorous as he was, his muscle knitted like iron with healthy exercise, Geoffrey knew that he had met his match. The native had a slight advantage of him in point of years; he was greased from head to foot, rendering a grip difficult, and his flying robe came asunder like cobwebs at the first strain. He fought with the abandon of a man who is reckless of life.
Over and over on the slippery rocks they rolled, each striving to get the other by the throat. By this time they were both breathing thick and fast, and Geoffrey's mind began to wander toward his revolver. But to release his grip to get that might be fatal. He could hear his antagonist gasping as he rolled off a ledge of rock, and then Geoffrey lifted his opponent's head and brought it down with a bang on the granite.
In the very instant of his triumph something whistled behind him, and a jagged piece of stone came smashing on to his temple.
He had a confused view of a native on his feet again, fast hurrying away, heard the rustle of garments and a further rustle of more garments, and then his arm was closed upon a female figure whom he pulled to the ground by his side.
He felt the woman open her lips to scream, but he clapped his hand over her mouth.
"No, you don't," he said grimly. "One of you has escaped and my friend the nigger has had a narrow escape, but I've got you, my lady. I've got you safe and I don't mean to let you go."
He felt the slight figure in his arms tremble and palpitate; he heard voices above. Once more the slim figure shivered. His hand was torn from her mouth and the woman spoke.
"They are calling you," she said; "for God's sake let me go, Geoffrey."