is
name, as I ran, at the top of my voice.

I heard a loud cry; then another report. I hurried on, shouting his
name in a kind of frenzy. The strange courage of these savages had
already impressed me deeply. They did not fear our guns. They were all
attacking him, and he was alone, fighting for his life.

Then there was another report; it was his pistol. I still ran on, and
still shouted to him.

At last I received an answer. He had perhaps heard me, and was
answering, or, at any rate, he was warning me.

"More," he cried, "fly, fly, fly to the boat! Save yourself!"

"Where are you?" I cried, as I still rushed on.

"Fly, More, fly! Save yourself! You can't save me. I'm lost. Fly for
your life!"

Judging from his cries, he did not seem far away. I hurried on. I
could see nothing of him. All the time the savages followed me. None
were armed; but it seemed to me that they were preparing to fling
themselves upon me and overpower me with their numbers. They would
capture me alive, I thought, bind me, and carry me back, reserving me
for a future time!

I turned and waved them back. They took no notice of my gesture. Then
I ran on once more. They followed. They could not run so fast as I
did, and so I gained on them rapidly, still shouting to Agnew. But
there was no response. I ran backward and forward, crossing and
recrossing, doubling and turning, pursued all the time by the savages.
At last, in rage and despair, I fired upon them, and one of them fell.
But, to my dismay, the others did not seem to care one whit; they did
not stop for one moment, but pursued as before.

My situation was now plain in all its truth. They had enticed Agnew
away; they had attacked him. He had fought, and had been overpowered.
He had tried to give me warning. His last words had been for me to
fly--to fly: yes, for he well knew that it was better far for me to go
to death through the raging torrent than to meet the fate which had
fallen upon himself. For him there was now no more hope. That he was
lost was plain. If he were still alive he would call to me; but his
voice had been silenced for some time. All was over, and that noble
heart that had withstood so bravely and cheerily the rigors of the
storm, and the horrors of our desperate voyage, had been stilled in
death by the vilest of miscreants.

I paused for a moment. Even though Agnew was dead, I could not bear to
leave him, but felt as though I ought to share his fate. The savage