“Better make sure with the point of the knife,” suggested Hondura.
“No,” said Bomba, “I will not kill a man who cannot fight. He will not wake till morning, and then we shall be far from here.”
His hopes were higher now as he pressed on. His one fear had been that Nascanora might rally his people and pursue his former prisoners. That fear now had vanished. Without their chief the headhunters would be confused and bewildered, and, not knowing what to do, would probably do nothing.
But now another enemy threatened. The waters of the cataract that had already wiped out most of the village were expanding into the open country. Already it was lapping at the fugitives’ heels, as though determined to draw them back and overwhelm them. It retarded their progress. Their feet stuck in the clammy ooze. The water kept rising higher and higher. It reached their ankles. It reached their knees. It seemed as though it were destined to conquer.
Then, just when it seemed that hope must be abandoned, an inspiriting cry came from Bomba.
“The road is leading upward!” he shouted. “We are coming to a hill! The waters shall not have us!”
There was a jubilant chorus of shouts as the party struck the incline, and in a few minutes they were on ground above the swirling waters of the mighty river. The Giant Cataract had reached out for them, but they had eluded its grasp!
It was an exhausted but happy throng of refugees that sank down upon the slope as soon as they had reached a safe distance.
Their situation had changed as though by the waving of a magician’s wand. Two hours before they had been helpless victims in the hands of the headhunters, doomed to torture and to death. Now their enemies were scattered, demoralized, fleeing for their lives from an enemy as pitiless as themselves.
The rain had ceased now, and the traveling promised to be easier. Bomba gave them a little time to rest, and then the journey was resumed.