“Most likely to watch out for the yacht. It isn’t certain your father won’t make an attempt to put in here in search of us, although I don’t think one of our boats could land, and they want to make sure of not being interrupted.”
During the next half-hour the negroes remained idle, lounging near the scene of the feast, and then the messengers returned.
Whatever report they made must have been satisfactory, for immediately the fire was rebuilt, the pot slung on two crotched sticks, and the old fellows took up their station nearby, as if to repeat the mummery of the previous evening.
Now the prisoners understood that they were to take some part in the ceremony, for three of the men stood directly in front of them, while the priests began once more the doleful chant.
“They are going to kill us,” Nelse cried, in alarm, but forced to remain motionless before the blacks, each of whom held a short-bladed knife in his hands.
Mr. Jenkins no longer attempted to cheer his companions. He believed, as Nelse did, and with good reason.
While the old men sang, those who had evidently been selected as executioners advanced slowly, brandishing their weapons, and making gestures, while the remainder of the party stood nearby, gazing intently, as if at some fascinating spectacle.
Neither of the prisoners spoke. Death seemed so close at hand that the numbness of despair was upon them, and each watched the gleaming circles of steel as the knives came slowly toward them.
When the three men were not more than five feet away from him, Gil fancied he heard a slight noise directly in the rear, as if some one was lighting a match; but since none of the blacks paid any attention to it, he fancied he was mistaken, and tried to prepare himself in some slight degree for the supreme moment.
Now the circle of spectators grew smaller; the old men forced their way through, that they also might witness what was possibly one of their fiendish rites, and the gleaming steel almost touched the victims.