“Never you mind, if—I say, draw your sword, man! Look out!” cried Chumbley, excitedly, as he drew his weapon from its sheath. “There’s one of those mad Malay demons running a-muck!”
As he spoke there was a shouting and shrieking heard in the street between the Chinese bazaars; right in front people were running frantically, as if for their lives, while from the direction of the prison they could see a nearly nude Malay with a red handkerchief tied round his head, and a flaming yellow sarong about his waist, in strong contrast to the white and blue clothed crowd who were skurrying here and there.
Hilton’s first instinct was to follow the example of the rest, and turn down some sideway or into a store; but as he saw first one and then another unfortunate stagger and fall where the fierce Malay dashed on, striking right and left, a feeling of rage took possession of him, and he felt ready to assist in the capture of the fanatic, who was racing out followed now by a mixed crowd of armed men, shouting with all their might, “Amok! amok!”
The Malay, with rolling eyes, foaming lips, and teeth gnashing like some wild beast, rushed toward the young officers. He was striking right and left with his kris, and two more men who had tried to intercept him fell from the deadly thrusts. Then a native woman was stabbed in the throat, and the savage enthusiast was making straight for where a couple of Indian nurses with some European children were cowering against a wall, too much alarmed to do anything but shriek.
This roused Hilton and Chumbley to action; and they interposed between the shrieking women and the Malay.
They were both good swordsmen as far as military teaching goes; but the Malay paid no more heed to their blunt regulation weapons than if they had been made of lath.
Hilton was first, and as he tried to guard himself from a thrust, the Malay leaped upon him and drove his kris through the fleshy part of his arm, and Chumbley stumbled over him.
With a shrill yell the Malay dashed on, struck at one of the women, who fell, and would have stabbed the children; but the fierce crowd was after him—a crowd gradually augmented, and among whom were three or four armed soldiers and a couple of the native police, each bearing what seemed to be a large pitchfork.
The Malay rushed on headlong, stabbing right and left, and marking his way with the bodies of the victims as he continued his fearful course, devoting himself to death, but with the furious thirst for blood displayed in such cases, where the Amok runner kills all he can, and goes on till he is either shot down or brought to bay.
Every now and then a Malay would make a stab at the savage as he passed, some of which blows took effect; but for the most part the runner escaped unhurt—the frightened people in the streets fleeing for life, with the consequence that here and there quite a little knot would be driven into a corner, crowding, shrieking together, unable to escape, and the outside unfortunates would receive lightning-like stabs before the wretch who delivered them raced on.