"Don't fire until they are close," Frank shouted. "Now let them have it."
The volley poured into them, at but ten paces distance, had a deadly effect. The blacks paused for a moment, and the rescuing party, led by George Lechmere and Dominique, rushed at them. The sailors' pistols cracked out, and then they charged, cutlass in hand.
For a moment the blacks stood, but the fierce attack was too much for them, and they again fled to the village.
"Stop, Dominique!" Frank shouted, for the big pilot, who had already cut down three of his opponents, was hotly pursuing them. "We must make for the path at once."
[Chapter 18].
In a couple of minutes they had gained it.
"Anyone hurt?" Frank asked.
One of the boatmen had an arm broken by a bullet, and two of the sailors had received spear wounds at the hands of the villagers. They were not serious, however, and leaving George Lechmere to cover the rear, they started up the path; Dominique, as usual, leading the way, Frank following behind him with Bertha, who had hitherto not spoken a word.
"Am I dreaming?" she asked now, in a tone of bewilderment. "Is it really you, Frank?"
"You are not dreaming, dear, and it is certainly I—Frank Mallett. Now tell me how you got on."