“You, Zangamon, take these boughs here. Bremilu, those others. Now I will hold the light. Back to the cave, now--quick!”
“We need not the light, master. We see better without it. It dazzles our eyes. Use it for yourself. We need it not!” exclaimed Bremilu, stooping above the body of the dead monster to recover his ax.
Involuntarily Allan turned the beam upon the horrible creature. There stood Bremilu, his foot upon the hairy shoulder, tugging hard at the ax-handle. Thrice he had to pull with all his might to loosen the blade which had buried itself deep in the shattered skull.
“A giant gorilla, so help me!” he cried, shuddering. “My God, Beatrice--what a ghastly terror you've been through!”
Still grinning ferociously, in death, with blood-smeared face and glazed, staring eyes, the creature shocked and horrified even Allan's steady nerves. He gazed upon it only a moment, then turned away.
“Enough!” said he. “To the cave!”
A quarter-hour had passed before they reached shelter again. Allan bade the Merucaans heap dry wood on the embers in the cavern, while he himself laid Beatrice upon the bed.
With a piece of their brown cloth dipped in one of the water-jars he bathed her face and bruised throat.
“Fresh water! Fetch a jar of fresh water from the river below!” he commanded Zangamon.
But even as the white barbarian started to obey, the girl stirred, raised a hand, and feebly spoke.