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 water rose higher, stronger. Between them and their goal there opened a wide whirlpool which they could withstand only in a mass by taking hold of hands. Only the giant Burunda went ahead of them breaking the turbulent waves with this stout chest.

Like an islet in the center of a sea stood the group of soldiers upon their pile, up to their waists in water, with bows drawn, aimed for the Tukholian post. Their military discipline had not yet been destroyed by their peril. Luckily their heap of stones was bigger than that of the others, made up of huge slabs of rock which only under water could so easily have been lifted and moved. More than a hundred additional fully armed men could stand on it and there were exactly that number with Burunda without counting those whom he had left near the wall of rock beneath the protecting ridge.

Standing upon the pile, Burunda’s comrades sighed a little in relief. First of all they glanced towards the cliff where they had left their companions, about forty in number. In that spot was a furious whirling and swishing of waves dashing themselves against the sharp projections of the cliff, splashing their silvery foam high up the wall. There was not a sign of the Turkomen, only at those times when the waves momentarily calmed themselves, something black showed against the background of the dark stone wall; this was apparently the only living man left from among that company. With paralyzing grip, he clung to the cliff no matter how vehemently the mad waves pulled and yanked at his body. He did not scream, did not cry out for help, only swayed with each influx of the tide until in the end he also disappeared, like a leaf washed down stream.

Burunda, benumbed, his face blue from suffering and wrath, glanced over the valley. The dreadful cries and wails had ceased. In the whirlpools, here and there showing above