The maniac had made the fatal leap!
CHAPTER XX.
THE PARSON’S BATTLE.
The prisoners heard the Parson’s startled cry, and they staggered back overwhelmed. They were lost!
As for Stanard, he was having a yet more terrible experience. His exclamation had been caused as he felt two clawlike hands seize him and fasten to him with the grip of a vise. An instant later he felt himself jerked into the cave as if he had been a child and flung violently to the ground.
Now, the Parson had considerable muscle, geologically developed. Also, as we know, he was capable of getting mad in genuine Boston tea-party style. He was mad then, and he made a fight with every bit of strength that was in him. He fought all the harder for realizing that the lives of his friends were the prize of the battle.
Writhing and twisting, he managed to struggle to his feet; with one desperate effort he flung off his assailant; and then, realizing that every second was precious, he turned and bounded away down the cave.
The place was as black as midnight, and the cadet had not the slightest idea what sort of a man his foe might be, or what sort of weapons he might have. But he heard the bounding steps behind him as he rushed toward the door, and fear lent wings to his pace.
The Parson’s mightiest efforts, however, were in vain compared with the speed of the savage wild man. The Parson felt a hand clutching at him, catching under his coat, dragging him back, back, and reaching for his throat. He whirled about and struck out with all his power. A moment later there was another hand-to-hand struggle.
Powerful though Stanard was, and strain though he did in desperation, the horrible fact was speedily forced upon him that his sinewy foe was too much for him. The terrible battle was so quickly over, and its result so overwhelming, that the cadet nearly swooned as he fell. Two crushing arms had seized him about the body in a grip that never weakened, and half a minute later he was flat on his back with two griping hands fixed on his throat.