But the
locker was firmly closed and I could not open it. After a minute of vain
efforts I returned to the combatants and found that Juba had nearly
completed his mastery. He had Ingra doubled over his knee and was
endeavoring to pinion his hands.
At this instant, when the victory seemed complete, and our enemy in our
power, Juba uttered a faint cry and fell in a heap. Blood instantly
stained the floor around him, and Ingra, with a bound, dropping a long
knife, attained the door of a nearby chamber, and was out of sight before
I could even start to pursue him. Nevertheless, I ran after him, but
quickly became involved in a labyrinth where it was useless to continue
the search, and where I nearly lost my way.
I then returned to see how seriously Juba had been wounded. He had
crawled into the car. I bent over him--he was dead! The knife had
inflicted a fearful wound, and it seemed wonderful that he could have
made his way unassisted even over the short distance from where he was
struck down to the door of the car.
_Juba dead!_ I felt faint and sick! But the critical nature of the
emergency helped to steady my nerves by giving me something else to think
of and to do.
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