He paused for a moment’s thought as to how the affair was likely to end. A mile of tangled brush lay between him and them. Could he reach the spot in time?
As if to answer his question, the white and brown line, Diaz’s men, suddenly began marching straight on toward the lone white man who stood out before the Caribs.
“Too late!” The boy all but sank upon the ground. Yet, getting a better hold upon himself, he stood there wide-eyed and terrified.
Never had he witnessed a thing so strikingly dramatic as the deadly regular march of those men. And never had he seen anything so heroic as the image of the aged colonel standing there erect, silent, motionless, facing them all.
Sixty seconds passed, the men had covered half the distance. Ninety seconds; they were very near. A hundred; they were all but upon the silent figure. Still with arms hanging motionless, he stood there. It was a tense moment. The boy ceased breathing. Standing there, leaning far forward, he thought a prayer, that was all.
But what was this? At some call from the side, all faces turned right. The marching column broke step, then came to a dead halt. As they did so, erect, with head held high, a stately figure rode in before them.
“The old Don, the last of the Dons!” Pant breathed. “How strange!”
To all appearance the aged Spaniard began to speak. The others paused to listen.
“Now—now is my chance!” The boy’s mind worked like a spring lock. “I may make it yet.” At once he dropped over the ledge and made his way down the perilous cliff until at last he reached the tangled mass of vegetation that lay at the foot of the rocky ledge.
Battling now with all his might, heedless of brambles that tore at his clothing, of stinging palm leaves that cut his face, and the ooze of the lowlands that threatened to engulf him, expecting every moment to hear the war cry of the Caribs, he fought his way through.