“There’s plenty of time!” muttered Grôm, and dropped upon his feet in the middle of the trail. The girl came in mad haste after him, but at his sharp command “Stay there!” she contented herself with slipping out upon the lowest branch, just over his head, and holding her spear ready.
“Kill him!” she cried. But Grôm seemed not to hear.
Staggering, and half blind with exhaustion Mawg was within twenty paces before he noticed who was confronting him. Then his dull eyes blazed. With a 114 snarl of fury he hurled his club straight at Grôm’s face, missing him only by a hand’s-breadth. But the effort, and the disappointment at finding himself thus balked, as he imagined, on the very threshold of escape, seemed to finish him. He stumbled on with groping hands outstretched, and fell just at Grôm’s feet.
Grôm hesitated, wondering how he could get this inert weight up into the tree. The girl did not understand his hesitation.
“Kill him!” she hissed, leaning down eagerly from her branch overhead.
“No, he’s a great warrior, and the tribe needs him,” answered Grôm, stooping to shake the prostrate form.
Mawg stirred, beginning to recover. Grôm shook him again.
“Up into the tree, quick!” he ordered in a loud, sharp voice. “The lions are coming.”
Mawg roused himself, sat up, and stared with a look of bewilderment changing swiftly into hate.
“Up!” shouted Grôm again. “The tree. They’re coming!”