As the hunters now scattered, Ebony had some difficulty in keeping close enough to the chief to observe his movements. Voalavo himself was too intent upon his work to think of anything else, or to care who was near him.
Gradually he approached close enough to an animal to thrust his spear deep into its side. It sprang from the ground and made a noise as if hurt by the horn of a comrade, but this is so common an event that the rest of the cattle were in no way disturbed by it.
The chief saw by the staggering of the animal that it was mortally wounded, and that there was no need to follow it up, as it could be easily tracked and found in daylight. He therefore turned to attack another animal that was close at hand.
“Now den,” said Ebony to himself mentally, “your time’s come. Go at ’im!”
Lowering his weapon to the charge, he glanced round and observed the indistinct form of an animal on his right. It was apparently a little one.
“Weal is as good as beef,” thought Ebony, as he made a silent but furious rush, scarcely able to restrain a shout of anticipated victory.
The spear-point missed the animal, just grazing its back, and went deep into the ground, while the negro plunged with crushing violence on the back of John Hockins, who had been trying to approach his game à la Red Indian!
To say that poor Ebony was filled with horror, as well as shame and self-abhorrence, is but a feeble statement.
“Don’t speak, you black monster!” whispered the seaman in his ear, as he seized him by the throat.
The rush of apology which had sprung from Ebony’s heart was checked abruptly at the lips.