Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the pah was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.
Tomati’s men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the pah, the slaughter was frightful.
Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure.
One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might have used theirs in days of old; then there came a rush, a horrible crowding together, a sensation to Don as if some mountain had suddenly fallen on his head to crush out the hideous din of yelling and despairing shrieks, and then all was darkness.
It was still darkness, but the stars were shining brightly overhead, when Don opened his eyes again to begin wondering why his head should ache so terribly, and he should feel so cold.
Those thoughts were only momentary, for a colder chill ran through him as on both sides of where he lay a low moaning sound arose, as of some one in pain.
“Where am I?” he thought. “What is the matter?”
Then he realised what had happened, for a familiar voice said almost in a whisper,—
“Poor little Sally! I wish she was here with a bit of rag.”