Presently, he who had first made his appearance commenced descending the cliff, followed by the others, apparently in the same order in which they had arrived upon its edge.
Cingües had already shaken Quaco from his slumbers. The other sleepers had also been aroused by their companions; and, perceiving the numbers of the enemy, had grasped their guns with a firmer hold.
Though the day had now dawned, none of the four shadowy figures, outlined against the façade of the cliff, could be identified. The dark rock and the bramble hindered them from being fairly seen. Not even when they had reached the bottom of the stair could they be recognised: for there also the frondage afforded them cover.
It was only after the two foremost had entered the canoe, and the craft was seen gliding out into the open water, that Quaco could tell who were the two individuals thus seeking the solitude of the Duppy’s Hole.
“Chakra!” said he, in a whisper to Cingües. “The t’other? Prince! if my eyes don’t bamboozle me, it’s your old acquaintance, the penn-keeper!”
To the Fellatah this piece of information was superfluous: he had already recognised the well-known features of the man who had so deeply injured him.
The memory of all his wrongs rushed into his heart, accompanied by a thirst for vengeance—keen, irresistible.
With a wild cry—and before Quaco could interpose—he raised his piece and fired.
The young African was a marksman of unerring aim; and but for the upraised arm of Quaco, that had disturbed the level of that deadly tube, the hours of Jacob Jessuron would have been numbered.
And numbered they were. Despite the interruption—despite the accident that guided that leaden missile far wide of its mark—destiny had determined upon having its victim.