With the strength and fury of a Berserker, he gripped the rifle by the barrel, and wielding it like a ponderous flail he smote right and left.
At one moment the brass-bound butt crashed with a terrific lunge full in the tattooed face of a native; at the next it descended with relentless force upon the skull of another.
Then Ellerton's rifle cracked and Terence's revolver added to the din. The blacks seemed to melt away; and ere the main body of the pursuers could join in the struggle, the white men were safe within the stockade.
"Don't trouble about the door," shouted Mr. McKay, as Terence was about to close and barricade the iron-lined aperture.
Breathlessly the harried fugitives entered the cave, and, holding their rifles ready for instant use, awaited the arrival of their triumphant foes.
The door of the fence standing tantalisingly open served a better purpose than if it had been closed and barred. Had it been secured, the savages would soon have battered it in by sheer weight of numbers; but even in the heat of the pursuit the natives paused and looked askance at the mute invitation to enter.
Fears of some other snare, more terrible than those they had already experienced, held them in a spell-bound grip.
The temporary check gave the defenders a chance of much-needed rest.
"Now, lads," exclaimed Mr. McKay, "we are safe enough for the present. A thousand of the wretches couldn't rush us in this place. But keep your eyes open, and let rip at the first chap who shows his head inside the door."
There was a touch of irony in Mr. McKay's advice. Want of sleep threatened to become a more dangerous foe than the savages themselves, and the lads were almost falling asleep as they awaited the next assault.