It was determined, however, to be now doubly vigilant. The sentry was no longer placed on the beach but inside the rampart, and never less than four men went to the woods together.
Days and days went past, a sad time of doubt and uncertainty, and still no signs of savages. They came at last, however.
And one morning, looking down over the ramparts, they could see a group of tall, armed, and painted natives, standing on the sand spit examining the broken keel of the boat.
Then they disappeared in the bush.
Arms were got out now; the one little gate that led through the rampart was doubly barricaded; the little garrison waited and watched.
The forenoon wore on, birds sang in the trees, the low wind sighed through the woods, and the lovely flowers opened their petals to bask in the sweet sunshine. There were joy and gladness everywhere except in the hearts of those anxious mariners.
The day wore on, and the sun began to decline in the west. Our heroes had just finished dinner when the sentry lifted his finger, and beckoned to them. Through an opening in the rampart they could perceive fully a score of club- and spear-armed savages creeping stealthily up the hill.
As soon, however, as they were boldly hailed from the fort—for fort it might now be considered—they cast all attempts at concealment aside, and with a yell that was re-echoed back from every rock around they dashed onwards to the attack.
“Steady, men. Take good aim, and don’t throw away a shot.”
A volley completely staggered the enemy. They fell back quicker than they had come, going helter-skelter down the hill, and leaving several dead and wounded behind them.