“Yes,” I said; “try and find him. Go on.”
The great fellow drew a deep breath, and led off at once with the firelock in his left hand, the axe in his right; and I knew that if we had a fresh encounter, the modern weapon would be useless in his hands, while the axe would be terrible.
To my great horror, the course he chose was out by where the desperate struggle had taken place, and my first instinct was to close my eyes and not look at the dead Indians; but I told myself I was a soldier’s son, and that these men had fallen as we were fighting for our lives. But it was very terrible to see them lying there as they had fallen, two of them still grasping their weapons, and with a look of savage hatred in their faces.
Hannibal led on, Morgan followed, and I was last, and I was beginning to feel glad that we were leaving the dead behind, where they lay beneath the great cypress, when Hannibal turned round and raised his axe to point as it seemed to me in the direction of the forest beyond the garden, and to my horror it appeared as if the man had been seized with a fresh desire to shed blood, for his great lips were drawn away from his glistening teeth, his eyes opened widely showing broad rings of white round the dark irides, and throwing up the axe ready to strike, he dropped the gun and literally bounded at me.
With a faint cry of horror as I saw the awful-looking object leaping at me, the firelock dropping from his left hand, and the blood glistening on his great arms, I dropped sidewise just as a knife flashed by my cheek and over my left shoulder.
It was then that I realised the truth, and drew my breath hard, as I saw Hannibal’s axe descend; there was a terrible crashing sound and a heavy fall, and as, sick and seeing dimly, I looked down to my left, the great figure of the black was bending over a grinning object in the bushes at the forest edge, his foot was pressing back one of our enemies, and he dragged the axe free.
“Is he dead now?” Morgan whispered, hoarsely, and his face looked ghastly as he caught me by the arm.
Hannibal uttered a low deep sound, and drew himself up to his full height. Then he bent down again, and I saw him tear a glittering knife out of a brown hand, which with its arm rose above the bushes and was clinging still to the haft.
“Morgan,” I said, faintly, as the great black strode back toward where we had had the struggle first, “stop him. What is he going to do?”
“I want to stop him, lad,” whispered the faithful fellow, in low, awe-stricken tones; “but I can’t try; I daren’t. It must be done.”