And here it seemed for a moment as if the barbarians would win.
With their heavy battle clubs, which they swung above their heads with fearful force, they dealt terrible blows.
The armor resisted the point of the axe, but the concussion was something likely to prove almost as fatal. The guns of the white men were but frail guards.
The only way to do was to keep up a running fire and retreat before the terrible blows. This scattered the fighters, and at the same time made the outlook bad for the white men.
Indeed, for a time it began to look serious enough for them.
But at this moment Frank Reade, Jr., chanced to glance upward.
He saw that the airship had drifted over the peaks and was now above the valley. Even as he looked he saw Pomp, at the rail.
Instantly Frank signaled to him.
The astute darky was not long in grasping the situation. Professor Gaston was now on board with him, having been picked up by Pomp.
“Golly!” gasped the darky, “I done fink dat Marse Frank am in a bad scrape. Jes’ yo’ hol’ on dar, Marse Gaston. I’se gwine to fix dem chaps pretty quick!”