“You had better not interfere,” said Marizano, who stood close by.
“Out of the way!” cried Harold fiercely, in the strength of his passion hurling aside the man who opposed him.
“You shan’t give him another cut,” said Disco between his teeth, as he seized the driver by the throat.
“We don’t intend to do so,” said Marizano coolly, while the driver released himself from poor Disco’s weakened grasp, “he won’t need any more.”
The Englishmen required no explanation of these words. A glance told them that the man was dying.
“Cut him out,” said Marizano.
One of his men immediately brought a saw and cut the fork of the stick which still held the living to the dying man, and which, being riveted on them, could not otherwise be removed.
Harold and Disco lifted him up as soon as he was free, and carrying him a short distance aside to a soft part of the bank, laid him gently down.
The dying slave looked as if he were surprised at such unwonted tenderness. There was even a slight smile on his lips for a few moments, but it quickly passed away with the fast ebbing tide of life.
“Go fetch some water,” said Harold. “His lips are dry.”