Volley after volley was poured into their midst with terrible effect, increasing their confusion every minute.
“Lay aft here now, lads!” shouted James. “Down with your guns! Charge with cutlass and revolver. Hurrah!”
High above the demoniacal shrieks of the savages and the roaring of the flames rose that wild British cheer. Next moment the revolvers poured upon the foe a rain of death.
Again a cheer. Sword and cutlass flashed in the firelight. Right and left, left and right, the men struck out, and blood flowed like water.
Towering above all was James himself, with flashing eyes and red-stained blade, his long hair streaming behind in the breeze that fanned the flames.
Short but fearful was that onslaught. In the eyes of the terror-stricken savages every man must have seemed a multitude. And no wonder. It was death or victory for the poor Crusoes; and never before did soldier on battlefield, or sailor on slippery battle-deck, fight with greater fury than they did now.
But, lo! James has seen the king himself, with his golden-headed spear, which he tries in vain to poise, so crushed and crowded is he in the midst of his mob of warriors.
“It is I,” shouts James, in the native tongue, “I, whose blood you would have drunk. Drink it now if you dare!”
Nothing can withstand him, and soon he has fought his way towards the chief, and next moment the savage throws up his arms and falls dead where he stands.
As if moved now but by a single thought, the enemy, with a howl of terror, go rushing away and disappear in the darkness. The victors are left alone with the dead!