The fool literally ran himself through, hurling
himself on the sharp point in a brutal frenzy. He lay on his
back, quite still, with the spear-head buried in his chest and
the shaft sticking straight up in the air.
I turned to Harry, and in spite of myself smiled at what I saw.
He stood with his right arm upraised, holding his spear ready.
His left foot was placed well and gracefully forward, and his
body bent to one side like the classic javelin-thrower. And ten
feet in front of him the other Inca had fallen flat on his face
on the ground with arms extended in mute supplication for
quarter.
"What shall I do?" asked Harry. "Let him have it?"
"Can you?"
"The fact is, no. Look at the poor beggar--scared silly. But we
can't let him go."
It was really a question. Mercy and murder were alike
impossible. We finally compromised by binding his wrists and
ankles and trussing him up behind, using a portion of one of the
spear-thongs for the purpose, and gagging him. Then we carried
him behind a large boulder some distance from the ledge and
tucked him away in a dark corner.
"And when we get back--if we ever do--we can turn him loose,"
said Harry.
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