The pirates were going; panic had seized them, and they were in full retreat—a dozen or so in number, caring for nothing so much as to escape. They wanted no more of the house that had been their misfortune—that had seemed so easy and, yet, in truth, was so hard. They wanted to get away—in the unreasoning fear that held them, mad flight alone spelled safety. And they went, scurrying across the lawn and through the park, as though the Devil and all his battalions were riding in their wake.
"Terror drives—all else is forgotten," said Constable.
"We can be thankful for the terror," observed Parkington; "it saved us, I fancy; we should not have had a chance had they been properly led."
"We played in rare good luck," said Snowden. "Fifty pirates! and only a flesh wound in the arm, and a shattered door to pay the bill. Oh! what luck!"
"I am the only hero among you!" laughed Herford. "How does it happen, Parkington, that you let me get away with the wound?"
"When it comes to that," was the ready answer, "you are welcome to the honor,—if honor there be in letting a pirate stick you. I choose the whole hide rather than the hole."
"Come, gentlemen, let us inspect the casualties," said Marbury, and led the way out to the rear.
A dozen bodies lay on the grass and around the doorway—they had fallen in their tracks, proof of the deadly shooting of the defenders. Marbury turned them, one by one, with his foot, to make sure that they would buccaneer no more. The last one groaned, made a faint move to arise, and, then, seeing who prodded him, drew his dagger and plunged it into his heart.
"Wise man!" said Marbury. "He saves himself a tiresome imprisonment and an awful death."
On the other side of the house, there were both dead and wounded, the former, however, being much in the majority. Of the latter, two were maimed and helpless, and Marbury contented himself with directing the blacks to carry them into the nearest outhouse and give them drink. He would come presently, and see to their hurts. Another, blinded in both eyes by a bullet, was wandering around half crazed by the pain, and imploring some one to kill him. He had lost his dagger and was without weapon. Marbury looked at him a moment, considering—then, went to him.