An exclamation of amazement and relief fell from the old naturalist as he lowered the spear.
“But why—what—” he stammered, as he lay the weapon aside.
“The Indians!” panted Bomba, as he slammed the door shut and slipped into place the heavy bar he had fashioned while he was rebuilding the hut. “Nascanora and his head-hunters! They are here. You heard their cries. They have come to get you, to burn you in a fire.”
A light of comprehension came into Casson’s old faded eyes.
“But they shall not,” he cried, with a flare of the old courage and energy in which Bomba had formerly taken pride and which he had never expected to see again. “We will fight. I do not much care for myself; but if they kill me, they will kill you, too. And they shall not do it! We will beat them off!”
“Yes,” cried B
