Equally indolent were the motions of the Mosula youth as he drew
his skiff beneath an overhanging limb of a great tree that leaned
down to implant a farewell kiss upon the bosom of the departing
water, caressing with green fronds the soft breast of its languorous
love.
And, snake-like, amidst the concealing foliage lay the malevolent
Russ. Cruel, shifty eyes gloated upon the outlines of the coveted
canoe, and measured the stature of its owner, while the crafty brain
weighed the chances of the white man should physical encounter with
the black become necessary.
Only direct necessity could drive Alexander Paulvitch to personal
conflict; but it was indeed dire necessity which goaded him on to
action now.
There was time, just time enough, to reach the Kincaid by nightfall.
Would the black fool never quit his skiff? Paulvitch squirmed
and fidgeted. The lad yawned and stretched. With exasperating
deliberateness he examined the arrows in his quiver, tested his
bow, and looked to the edge upon the hunting-knife in his loin-cloth.
Again he stretched and yawned, glanced up at the river-bank, shrugged
his shoulders, and lay down in the bottom of his canoe for a little
nap before he plunged into the jungle after the prey he had come
forth to hunt.
Paulvitch half rose, and with tensed muscles stood glaring down
upon his unsuspecting victim.
Pages:
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232