As a point of fact it deceived him. The wind lulled, and the forest trees swung upwards in unison as though they had been performing a trick. The air cleared, and Carter raised his head to try and spot the part of the bush where the brass gun was masked. A black man sprang from the undergrowth, lifted a gun, fired, and missed. Carter threw up the Winchester for a snapshot. "Got him--Laura, for the Lord's sake keep down in shelter, or they'll pick you off to a certainty. Trouble, you hound, roll up those pillows and blankets underneath you into a hard wad, and stuff them into that gap at the corner there----" "Isn't there a splendid chill after that awful heat?" the girl said. "Wrap up, George, or you'll have fever. Here's your coat." "Look out," Carter shouted. "Hold on all with those blankets. Here comes more tornado." Once more the wind slammed down upon them with insane fury, and once more all loose inanimate things rose into vigorous flight. The forest trees cowered down into the swamps from which they grew. Solid rods of rain split against the factory buildings, and sent deluges of water squirting through the bamboo walls as though the matchwood backing had not been there. The roar was like the continuous passing of a hundred heavy trains over a hundred iron bridges all side by side. Gone altogether now was the stagnant heat. The air was scoured clean, and it was forced into the lungs at such high pressure that it exhilarated one like some deliciously choice vintage of champagne. "I'm hanged if I let those beggars kill us," Carter bawled out during one of the lulls. "In this splendid air life's too gorgeous." And then bump came the wind upon them again. But the tornado had blown out the heart of its strength. In five more minutes the wind had dropped, the rain ceased, the air cleared, the sun glared out overhead and began to heat the tropical day, and white steam oozed up from all the face of creation. This time Carter's rifle represented the whole orchestra of death for the defence. The factory Krooboys' flintlocks spoke no more; the ill-aimed Winchesters of the snuff-and-butter colored da Silva and his wife were silent. The Portuguese and the factory clerks, and the factory porters had cannily crawled away into the bush. They knew nothing of what was ahead of them in those steamy shades. One certainty alone fluttered big in their minds, and that was that they were leaving massacre behind. CHAPTER VII THE INVISIBLE FIRE