When they had risen from the long grass with a
horrid yell and had rushed in upon the hated intruders with couched
spears only to be met by a blinding fire of Lee-Metford and revolver
bullets their bravery vanished like breath from the face of a
looking-glass. They hesitated, and a rain of bullets wrought
terrible havoc amongst their ranks. On every side the fighting-men
of Bekwando went down like ninepins - about half a dozen only sprang
forward for a hand-to-hand fight, the remainder, with shrieks of
despair, fled back to the shelter of the forest, and not one of
them again ever showed a bold front to the white man. Trent, for
a moment or two, was busy, for a burly savage, who had marked him
out by the light of the gleaming flames, had sprung upon him spear
in hand, and behind him came others. The first one dodged Trent's
bullet and was upon him, when the boy shot him through the cheek
and he went rolling over into the fire, with a death-cry which
rang through the camp high above the din of fighting, another
behind him Trent shot himself, but the third was upon him before
he could draw his revolver and the two rolled over struggling
fiercely, at too close quarters for weapons, yet with the thirst
for blood fiercely kindled in both of them.
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