With its faint, grey
streaks came the savages of Bekwando, crawling up in a semicircle
through the long, rough grass, then suddenly, at a signal, bounding
upright with spears poised in their hands - an ugly sight in the
dim dawn for men chilled with the moist, damp air and only
half-awake. But Trent had not been caught napping. His stealthy
call to arms had aroused them in time at least to crawl behind some
shelter and grip their rifles. The war-cry of the savages was met
with a death-like quiet - there were no signs of confusion nor
terror. A Kru boy, who called out with fright, was felled to the
ground by Trent with a blow which would have staggered an ox. With
their rifles in hand, and every man stretched flat upon the ground,
Trent's little party lay waiting. Barely a hundred yards separated
them, yet there was no sign of life from the camp. The long line
of savages advanced a few steps more, their spears poised above
their heads, their half-naked forms showing more distinctly as they
peered forward through the grey gloom, savage and ferocious. The
white men were surely sleeping still. They were as near now as they
could get. There was a signal and then a wild chorus of yells.
They threw aside all disguise and darted forward, the still morning
air hideous with their cry of battle.
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