s last battle cry.

No, there is no hope. Swift as lightning, a mighty brain-wave surges
through Laurence's mind, and in it he sees the whole of his past life.
Yet not even this dismays him--rather does it engender a sort of
half-bitter exultation. Life for him has been such a mistake, and that
not through any fault of his own. It held no especial charm for him. All
its sweetness has been concentrated within one short idyllic period; but
even that could not have lasted--even to it would have come
disillusionment. Lilith would never learn his fate. It, and that of
those with him, would vanish, as others had done, into the mysteries of
this great mysterious continent. All this and more--so lightning-like is
the power of thought--passes through Laurence Stanninghame's brain at
this dread and awful moment.

A casting spear strikes him on the left shoulder, penetrating the flesh.
Infuriated by the sharp, sickening pang, he discharges his revolver at
the supposed thrower, but his aim is uncertain. Again he draws trigger.
The hammer falls with a harmless click; the chambers are empty. And now,
hard pressed by the yelling Ba-gcatya, those of his followers yet
between him and the enemy stagger back, fighting furiously, while the
life-stream wells from many a gashed and gaping wound. No longer can he
see either Hazon or Holmes, for the forest of waving, reeking spear
blades. Then one of his own followers, a hulking Swahili, mortally
wounded, reels and falls, and, doing so, bears back Laurence beneath his
ponderous weight. The rock-rampart is immediately behind him, and is low
here. It catches the back of his knees, and now, having lost all control
over his balance, grasping at empty air in wild effort to recover
himself, Laurence pitches heavily backward over the rocks, and lies half
stunned upon the plain without.

Those of the Ba-gcatya host in waiting on that side surge tumultuously
forward, uttering yells of savage delight. This is the first of the
doomed slavers who has come over; and he a white man, and of course a
leader. Each warrior is eager to bury his spear-head in this man's
body, and they crowd around him, every right hand raised aloft for the
downward stroke.

But the fatal stroke remains undealt. Broad blades quiver aloft in a
ring of steel. Each grim, bloodthirsty countenance is set and staring,
stony in its indescribable expression of mingled marvel and awe, and
eyeballs seem to start from their sockets as th