"And we'll try to stop them," said Floyd, with a laugh. It is the sign mark of the Anglo-Saxon and Celts and all breeds that spring from their mixture, that they go laughing into battle, die jesting, and carve their enemies with epigrams as well as swords; battle brings a levity of spirit that in its turn brings victory, and Floyd, now that war was declared, moved lightly and felt a liveliness at heart such as he had not experienced since boyhood.
He had destroyed the enemy's fleet, but he had not destroyed their land forces, and worse than all, he had not put their general out of action.
Sru was still alive, and he was more dangerous than all the others.
When the firing had begun, Sru had flung himself flat on his stomach on the sand, and from that position had yelled his orders. It was evident that he was the directing spirit of the whole business, and it was nearly certain that he would not take defeat lying down.
The weak position of the house as a defensive stronghold lay in its proximity to the grove and the fact that it did not command the approach to this bit of the island by way of the reef. The back of the building was close up to the trees, and, though there were chinks that made good loopholes for firing through, the trees, and especially their shadow by night, gave good cover for an attacking party.
Then there was the prospect of a siege. Floyd, taking his seat on the sand in the shade of the trees, called to Isbel to sit down beside him.
Then they held a council of war.
"How many fish spears have those fellows got, Isbel?" asked he.
"Many," replied Isbel. "They were making them a long time ago—too many for fishing."
"You mean they were made for the purpose of attacking us—I mean, of attacking me, for you were with them then?"