“Hondura will do so,” promised the Araos chief.
The tropic night soon fell and the darkness was made more intense than usual by the absence of moon or stars. A great storm was gathering. Claps of thunder deafened their ears and vivid lightning flashes shot across the sky.
Before long the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain came down in a deluge. It was a veritable cloudburst.
There was a shedlike structure in the stockade, used for storage of fodder for the cattle, and into this the prisoners huddled, finding some shelter from the fury of the elements.
For hours the torrential rain persisted. All that time Bomba’s brain was at work thinking out plans of escape, rejecting one, seizing on another, and weighing the chances of all. The case was desperate, but his spirit was indomitable.
Presently he noted a change in the sound of the cataract. The rains had swelled it tremendously, and its roar had increased. But it was not this that the jungle lad especially noted. It was a series of sharp reports, of splintering crashes, of jars that shook the earth, that caused him to listen in wonder.
Then he heard a loud screaming as of men and women in panic, a rushing of many feet and hoarse shouts that sent the guards scurrying from their posts in terror.
“The rocks of the falls are breaking! The cataract is coming down on the village! Run! Run! Run!”
CHAPTER XXIII
A MAD STAMPEDE
Bomba was on his feet instantly, his mind working with precision and rapidity.