Then, turning round, he blew out the man's brains as Francis sank backwards.

A dismal yell from his followers was the chief's requiem; then they turned and fled, followed by a storm of bullets as Trent's men found time to reload.

More than one leaped into the air and fell forward upon their faces.

The fight was over, and, when they came to look round, Francis was the only man who had suffered.
Morning had dawned even whilst they had been fighting.

Little wreaths of mist were curling upwards, and the sun shone down with a cloudless, golden light, every moment more clear as the vapours melted away.
Francis was lying upon his face groaning heavily; the Kru boys, to whom he was well known, were gathered in a little circle around him.