Distinct from it, as it were, I heard shouts of alarm and rage, and then came the sounds of gunshots, yells of agony and the thud of many running feet.

By now the light was growing fast, as it does when once it comes in these latitudes.

Three more minutes, and through the grey mist of the dawn we saw dozens of black figures struggling up the slope towards us.

Some seemed to have logs of wood tied behind them, others crawled along on all fours, others dragged children by the hand, and all yelled at the top of their voices.
"The slaves are attacking us," said Stephen, lifting his rifle.
"Don't shoot," I cried.

"I think they have broken loose and are taking refuge with us." I was right.