Ages later he opened his eyes and looked into the fear-crazed ones of Bimbo. The darky was bathing the blood that flowed from the wound in his scalp. Behind him, in the light of the lantern, he saw the strained faces of his comrades.
“I don’ think you was killed, Marse Phil,” blubbered Bimbo. “You bleed like you was ram’ by a bull. Thank de Lord you’se alive, Marse Phil.”
Phil sat up, brushing Bimbo away impatiently. He was still dizzy and it was hard to think clearly.
“Is—the island—still here?” he asked, incredulously.
Jack Benton laughed shakily, bending over him.
“Yes and so are we—yet,” he said. “Are you well enough to stand, Phil?”
Phil found that he was and between them he walked to the door of the cave and out into the sultry night.
Everything was quiet, as though the tremendous spectacle had never been. Only now and again a flame shot out from the mouth of the crater, a promise of future destruction.
From within the cave came Bimbo’s mournful wail: “Ef we don’ git away from dis yere island we’ll all go to de bottom of de sea. Yassir, dats where we’re agwine.”
Phil turned his eyes from a new-made fissure yawning at his feet out to the limitless sea. The throbbing of the pain in his head seemed to keep time with the monotony of the waves as they pounded upon the shore.