At the time the foremost of them had halted and were screaming, "Mercy, English! Save us, English!" having caught sight of the muzzles of our guns.
This was a fortunate occurrence indeed, for otherwise Hans and his companions could never have stopped them.

The next thing I saw was the white shirt bearing away to the left on a line which led past the fence of our _boma_ into the scrub and high grass behind the camp.

After it struggled and scrambled the crowd of slaves like a flock of sheep after the bell-wether.

To them Hans's shirt was a kind of "white helmet of Navarre." So that danger passed by.

Some of the slaves had been struck by the Arab bullets or trodden down in the rush or collapsed from weakness, and at those of them who still lived the pursuers were firing.