“May our howly mother presarve us, but the island is full of the haythen.”
“What is that light we saw?”
“It was the camp fire of a whole pack of the divils. But, we’re in a bad fix.”
“Didn’t you hear rifles? They’re in a worse fix,” said young Smith, in an under tone. “What’s to be done?”
“That’s what I don’t know. We must get back if we can, and see what the outlandish divils have been at. Yapnank has left me out there and maybe he’s gone back already.”
They both started toward the upper end of the island, the Irishman not disdaining to use the utmost caution. Every few yards he paused and listened for the slightest warning of danger, and, so for Smith, he expected in his excited condition each moment to see a whole horde of screeching savages rush out from the trees.
Although naturally brave he had not as yet acquired that familiarity with this species of danger to make him cool and collected.
The whole distance was passed without any further evidence of the presence of the enemy. Upon reaching their friends they found them vigilant and cool. They stated that a number of canoes had come from the mainland, and after reconnoitering the flat-boat had discharged a couple of rifles and then departed.
No one had been injured by the shots although they came dangerously near the elder Smith. Napyank had not yet returned, and the young man could see on the faces of those around him the impress of the most depressed and saddened forebodings. Some of them, especially his own cherished Ruth, was endeavoring to keep up a brave spirit, but none of them could conceal the discouragement they really felt in their hearts. Young Smith conversed with them in an under tone for a few moments and then withdrew to a retired spot.
Scarcely knowing what he did he walked slowly out from the protection which the tree afforded him, and stood on the moonlit beach. He placed the stock of his rifle on the hard shingle, and leaning upon it gave way to the most saddened meditations.