He knew instinctively that
they were preparing to hurl him into the heart of the fire, and the
instinct of self-preservation rushed upon him, stabbing him to vivid
consciousness. With a gigantic effort he writhed himself free from their
hold.
He fell headlong, but the strength of madness had entered into him. He
fought like a man possessed, straining at his bonds till they cracked
and burst, forcing from his parched throat sounds which in saner moments
he would not have recognized as human, struggling, tearing, raging, in
furious self-defence.
He was hopelessly outmatched. The odds were such as no man in his senses
could have hoped to combat with anything approaching success. Almost
before his bonds began to loosen, his enemies were upon him again. They
hoisted him up, fighting like a maniac. They tightened his bonds
unconcernedly, and prepared for a second attempt.
But, before it could be made, a fierce yell rang suddenly from the
cliffs above them, echoing weirdly through the savage pandemonium,
arresting, authoritative, piercingly insistent.
What it portended Herne had not the vaguest notion, but its effect upon
the two Wandis who held him was instant and astounding.
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