gh; yet to his assailants it well may prove the
dearest victory they have ever won.

A dark body, creeping among the scrub--just a glimpse and nothing more.
His piece is at his shoulder, and the trigger is pressed. He has not
missed--of that he is sure. But the echoes of his shot are swallowed up,
drowned in a hundred other echoes reverberating upon the dim silence of
the scrub.

Echoes? No. The screech and tear of missiles very near to his own head,
the smoke, the jets of flame from half a hundred different points--all
this is sufficient to show that these are no echoes. His own people have
come up. He is rescued, but only just in the nick of time.

"Look out," he shouts in stentorian tones. "Don't fire this way.
Hazon--Holmes, I'm here! Keep the fools in hand. They are blazing at
me."

But the crash of the volley drowns his voice, and the scrub is alive
with swarming natives armed with firelocks of every description. Yet,
above the volley and the savage shouts, Laurence can hear the hoarse,
barking yell, can descry the forms of his late enemies--such as are left
of them--as they flee, leaping and bounding, zigzagging with incredible
velocity and address, to avoid the hail of bullets which is poured after
them.

He can realize something more--something which sends through his whole
being a cold shudder of dismay and despair. Not his own people are these
otherwise so opportune arrivals. Not his own people, but--the
inhabitants of the villages his own people are on their way to
raid--fierce and savage cannibals by habit, but with physique which will
furnish excellent slaves. He has literally fallen from the frying-pan
into the fire.

How he curses his raw folly in making his presence known! But for this
he might have slipped away unnoticed during the scrimmage. Now they come
crowding up, brandishing their weapons and yelling hideously. Although
inferior both in aspect and stature to those they have just defeated,
these barbarians are formidable enough; terror-striking their wildly
ferocious mien. Many of them, too, have filed teeth, which imparts to
their hideous countenances the most fiend-like appearance.

Is it that in the apparently fearless attitude, the stern, even
commanding glance of this solitary white man, there is something that
overawes them? It may be so, for they stop short in their hostile
demonstrations and commence a parley. Yet not altogether does Laurence
Stanninghame feel relieved, for a sudd