But this favoritism, alas! was not likely to save him.
Black Panther, perhaps, had anticipated it; for many of his partisans were stationed near him, and they formed a terrible phalanx which the prisoner had yet to pass before his safety could be attained.
Jaded, breathless, bruised, and weakened, what could he do?
There was no mercy in the fierce faces before him. The sacred teachings of forgiveness had not moved those fierce hearts.
The despised and trembling prisoner had grown almost into a hero in their estimation, whom it would be an honor to imitate and whose escape would be a lasting disgrace to their prowess.
The result was almost inevitable.
Poor Hare, after his really gallant effort to escape, fell under a heavy blow. He was not a dozen yards from the goal of safety, but he lay stunned and motionless on the ground. To all appearance he was quite dead.
His friends, indeed, hoped that such might be the case and that his sufferings were ended.
But in this they were disappointed, for when a few gourdfuls of water had been dashed over him by his exultant foes he revived and showed that he had yet enough of life in him to gratify their ferocity, which was only now fully awakened.