I turned faint, but I recovered my senses as I saw Ching spring up, rush at a man on the sand, snatch up his sword and run to me.
“Quick!” he cried; “jump up; fight!”
Almost mechanically I obeyed him, and snatched a knife from the hands of one of the fallen men to defend my life, just as a second volley rolled forth from the cliff, directed at the pirates as they ran toward the ridge.
For there was no need for us to fight—our enemies were in full retreat; and, as I looked up at the cliff, I could see our men drawn-up, and they were signalling evidently to some one out of sight.
The next minute we were hailed.
“Which is the way down?”
“This way,” cried Ching excitedly; and he ran south, pointing to the rift by which he had climbed the cliff, while I stood there—giddy, helpless, and at last sank down on my knees beside poor Tom Jecks, who was still muttering something about the storm.
I recovered, however, enough to watch our men descending the rift—a perilous, break-neck place; but they did not hesitate, and in a few minutes all were down, formed up, and came toward us at the double.
And now for the first time, at the head of those familiar faces, I saw Mr Reardon, who thrust his sword into his sheath as he drew near and literally rushed at me.
“My dear boy!” he cried, giving me quite a fatherly hug; “thank God, we were just in time.”