measures were
replaced by a mighty show. On the surface there was vast play of battle,
but inwardly quaking. And Sir George marched forward, his right hand
gripping the gun hard, his lip quivering, his eye burning.

The injured physical man was triumphant over the peace-loving soul, and
anyhow there must now be a lesson. Of all those lines of thought Sir
George was not, perhaps, conscious in his peril, yet, fetching back, he
could trace them as they had worked. Seeking a solution by measures not
violent, he had been given sore spears, whereon his finger tightened at
the trigger, and he was a wound automaton; fixed, stern, a fate on feet,
bearing down upon the chief in the shelter of the rock.

The brandished club was no stop; no more did the skirmishing support of
the clan bring pause to the oncomer. The black general bobbed quite
behind his rock, considering the necessity of absolute retreat. Next, he
snapped off quickly, dodging here and there, as the aboriginal plan was,
to avoid a cast of spears. It was not suited to avoid lead.

Everything had occurred within the space of a few minutes; for such
crises do, otherwise the tension would kill. The chief ran; a tall dark
body, with many other bodies watching it. Sir George raised his gun and
pointed it at the warrior, struggling to a shelter from which the attack
could be renewed. Snap went the trigger. With a bullet, the marksman
could shoot a greater seabird, by the head, at a range of a hundred
yards. This bullet caught the black between the shoulders, and he fell
with a thud and a groan. In Sir George, the physical being surrendered
itself again to the intellect. The situation was saved, his wounds stung
him no more to vindication--he was sorrowful, a-weary.

There was no sound after the echoes of the shot had died away, a
spluttering funeral knell. Other natives, laying their spears aside,
sprang from behind trees and rocks to the help of their fallen chief.
Nobody would harm them; the magic had ceased. They raised him with the
greatest solicitude, and bore him off. His head hung on his breast; he
could just stagger.

Faint from loss of blood, Sir George watched the serpent-like procession
twine itself into the inner depths of the forest. Having conquered; he
had to console himself on the victory and bind up his own hurts. These
made him so weak that he must send to the camp for assistance, and he
awaited its coming, a loaded gun on his knee. The blacks assail