Of a sudden it came to him that he was master of the situation. More than one pair of eyes had witnessed the deadly execution of his powerful yew bow. Eight arrows remained in his quiver.
“Not one of those natives, nor all of them together would dare oppose me so long as I have my bow and arrows,” he told himself.
As proof of this he saw a man in the tree nearest him, a look of abject terror on his face, staring down at him.
Seeing the wild creature lying before him and knowing the high place which wild pork held in the esteem of the natives, he drew his clasp knife to cut the jugular vein and allow the blood to run free.
Then with a laugh, he tossed his quiver of arrows over his shoulder, gripped his bow and turning walked slowly back down the trail that had led him to that place.
* * * * * * * *
When Dorn was brought to full consciousness by Pompee’s grip on his arm and his insistent, “Look, Monsieur. Only look!” he stared wildly about him for a moment. Then, following the direction of the aged native’s uplifted and pointing hand, he strained his eyes in an attempt to discover some unusual sight at the crest of the ancient Citadel.
For some little time he saw nothing. The distant tum-tum-tum of a native drum smote his ears. That was all.
“The natives,” he said in a surprised whisper. “Why are they here?”
“It is not the natives of to-day.” Pompee’s voice seemed to come from the depths of some echoing chamber. “It is a spirit of the past. It is he, the Emperor, Christophe. I have heard. I did not believe. Now I see. I believe. It is he who beats the drum. It is he who walks upon the wall. He has come back to call his scattered people together. For what? Who can say?”