There had been five men who had come to acquire slaves. Of these two survived, including the bearded man, who had been their leader. The other fellow, not the bearded man, had been lacerated, probably in an attempt to interfere in the tangle of fighting beasts. Indeed, he may even have struck, perhaps with an uncertain blow, not Borko, but the other beast, who had perhaps then, or the leader, turned on him, biting at him, forcing him back. He had not cared, it seemed, the unwisdom of such a project perhaps now clearer to him, to approach the beasts a second time. Three men had been in league with the beasts. Of these only one survived, the small fellow. There had been three beasts. Of these two were dead, one by Borko, the other by Hendow. The leader of the beasts, too, was bloody, but I think his wounds were not grievous. He had been probably protected by the width of his body, affording little place for the closing of jaws, and the sturdiness of his ribs.
"It is a bloody afternoon," said the bearded man.
"My beautiful friends are dead," said the small man, looking at the beasts. The leader of the beasts growled at him.
"Who were these two?" asked the fellow with the torn arm, indicating Hendow and Mirus.
"That one," said the bearded man, indicating Hendow, "was a fine swordsman." "But what was he doing here?" asked the small man.
"He had a sleen," said the bearded man. "He was doubtless a slave hunter." "The other one may still be alive," said the fellow with the injured arm. The blood was slow on it now, as he had his hand clasped over the wound. Blood, as he held the wound, was between his fingers, and was visible also in rivulets, running to his wrist and the back of his hand.
Tupita looked up, frightened, from where she crouched over Mirus. His eyes were now open. Her hair and hands were covered with blood. She had stopped the bleeding. I did not think, however, he could rise.