For a moment Trent
had the worst of it - a blow fell upon his forehead (the scar of
which he never lost) and the wooden club was brandished in the air
for a second and more deadly stroke. But at that moment Trent
leaped up, dashed his unloaded revolver full in the man's face and,
while he staggered with the shock, a soldier from behind shot him
through the heart. Trent saw him go staggering backwards and then
himself sank down, giddy with the blow he had received. Afterwards
he knew that he must have fainted, for when he opened his eyes the
sun was up and the men were strolling about looking at the dead
savages who lay thick in the grass. Trent sat up and called for
water.
"Any one hurt?" he asked the boy who brought him some. The boy
grinned, but shook his head.
"Plenty savages killed," he said, "no white man or Kru boy."
"Where's Mr. Davenant," Trent asked suddenly.
The boy looked round and shook his head.
"No seen Mr. Dav'nant," he said. "Him fight well though! Him not
hurt!"
Trent stood up with a sickening fear at his heart. He knew very
well that if the boy was about and unhurt he would have been at his
side. Up and down the camp he strode in vain. At last one of the
Kru boys thought he remembered seeing a great savage bounding away
with some one on his back.
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