It was Trent himself who kept watch through that last long hour of moonlit darkness till the wan morning broke.

With its faint, grey streaks came the savages of Bekwando, crawling up in a semicircle through the long, rough grass, then suddenly, at a signal, bounding upright with spears poised in their hands--an ugly sight in the dim dawn for men chilled with the moist, damp air and only half-awake.

But Trent had not been caught napping.

His stealthy call to arms had aroused them in time at least to crawl behind some shelter and grip their rifles.

The war-cry of the savages was met with a death-like quiet--there were no signs of confusion nor terror.