Now the two within the hut heard an ominous crackling which told them that the wall was catching fire. It grew louder and louder. It seemed to spell their doom.
They were in a fearful plight. If they stayed inside, they would be burned to death. If they rushed outside, nothing could save them from the arrows of their invisible foes.
Invisible! It was this that made Bomba grind his teeth in rage. He had often faced death, but on those occasions he had seen his foes and had had his chance of selling his life dearly. Now even this poor privilege would be denied him. He and Casson would be shot down with perfect impunity by the enemies behind the trees. Long before he could reach them, he would have fallen.
Other arrows with their fire trails had followed the first flight, and Bomba knew by the increasing light on the ground that the wall must be studded with them.
The crackling now was becoming a roar, and Bomba could tell that the logs themselves were afire. Spurts of flame began to creep through the cracks, and the heat became unbearable.
He and Casson tried to beat out the interior blaze with boards, but for every flame they extinguished a dozen more appeared. The wall had fairly caught, and the fire was beyond their control. The end seemed very near.
Bomba mentally said farewell to life. It was hard to die right on the threshold of life. All his dreams had faded. He would never see the white men again, never solve the mystery of his existence.
Their hands and faces now were blistered by the heat, and they were forced to retreat to the farther part of the hut. There was a little water there, and they dashed it over them. Then they drenched some cloths that they wrapped around their necks and faces.
“Bomba, my boy!” said Casson, in one of his rare expressions of affection. “I’m an old man, and weary. But you’re a lad and should live on.” The old man went on, but now the words became mere muttering.
Hope now was gone. They could not help themselves and there was none to help them.