Weak from terror, Rokoff sank shuddering into the bottom of the
dugout. For a moment he could not realize the good fortune that
had befallen him--all that he could see was the figure of a silent,
struggling white man disappearing beneath the surface of the river
to unthinkable death in the slimy mud of the bottom.
Slowly all that it meant to him filtered into the mind of the
Russian, and then a cruel smile of relief and triumph touched his
lips; but it was short-lived, for just as he was congratulating
himself that he was now comparatively safe to proceed upon his
way to the coast unmolested, a mighty pandemonium rose from the
river-bank close by.
As his eyes sought the authors of the frightful sound he saw
standing upon the shore, glaring at him with hate-filled eyes, a
devil-faced panther surrounded by the hideous apes of Akut, and in
the forefront of them a giant black warrior who shook his fist at
him, threatening him with terrible death.
The nightmare of that flight down the Ugambi with the hideous
horde racing after him by day and by night, now abreast of him, now
lost in the mazes of the jungle far behind for hours and once for
a whole day, only to reappear again upon his trail grim, relentless,
and terrible, reduced the Russian from a strong and robust man to
an emaciated, white-haired, fear-gibbering thing before ever the
bay and the ocean broke upon his hopeless vision.
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