On a rock, in-shore, blazed a fierce and brightly burning fire of wood. Advancing towards this was at least two hundred demoniacal warriors. They were black and awful; and as they marched they chanted some wild, unearthly kind of song, varied by shrill screams, while they waved aloft their guns and spears, and bent their naked bodies to and fro, and from side to side.
Suspended between two forked sticks, and held high aloft, was a strong bamboo, fully seven feet long.
Underneath this, with pinioned hands and legs, and tied to the bamboo by cords, hung the unfortunate fat boy.
It was evident he was alive, although doubtless soon to be murdered.
This party must be attacked first, at all hazards.
The boats are now well round the point. In their blind frenzy the cannibals have not seen them, nor do they, till a terrible war-rocket goes tearing through their ranks, followed by another, and still another.
For a moment they scatter in confusion across the beach, but quickly reform en masse. Twenty at least of their number lie dead on the coral sands, that are dyed with their blood.
Forming in close columns was the worst formation they could have adopted.
For now the rifles of Antonio’s men play awful havoc in their ranks.
The bearers of the poor, unhappy, fat boy have made for the bush with him. Presently, however, they emerge without their burden, and a company of Mlada’s men follow speedily after, with loud cries for vengeance.