It was indeed a dreadful thing.
But Pomp was certainly powerless. Higher the brushwood was heaped, and then one of the savages advanced with a torch.
In a moment he had applied it to the pile.
The dry wood burned like tinder. In an instant great flames sprang up.
But they were at the edge of the pile. However, Pomp felt their heat and they would soon reach him.
The poor darky was nearly insane with a frenzy of desperation.
The savages now began a fiendish dance about the pile. They leaped and ran, and swung their tomahawks and made hideous faces at their victim.
But fate had not ordained that this was to be Pomp’s end.
Even while death seemed certain, rescue was close at hand.
Suddenly there smote upon the air the ring of horses’ hoofs, and a quick sharp order, followed by the crash of carbines.