Leonard and Douglas wait and watch, trying to peer through the smoke, and unravel, if possible, some of the mystery that has been taking place below.
Dimly through the haze at last they can notice figures dressed in white clambering up the hill.
“Come out at once, you white fellows,” cries a bold English voice. “Come forth, if you don’t want to be roasted alive. The fire is close on you.”
The rampart gates were opened, and the besieged bade speedy farewell for ever to their cave and fort. Sturdy, bare, brown-armed sailors, armed with cutlasses and pistols, were their rescuers, but presently they found themselves on the beach, and standing in front of the ringleader or captain of the band. A tall handsome man he was, dressed in white, with a turban of silk around his head, and a sword by his side. He was smoking a cheroot.
“Happy to see you, anyhow,” he said. “Squat yourselves down on the sand there; I guess you’re tired.”
“And I, Captain Bland, am glad to see you once again.”
“What! you know me then?”
“Yes, though you can hardly be expected to remember the lad you kidnapped.”
Bland jumped up and seized Leonard by the hand, while tears filled his eyes.
“Oh!” he said, “this is a greater joy then ever I could have dreamt of, greater than ever I deserved. I care little now how soon my wanderings are ended, or how soon I leave the world itself.”