“All down!” she repeated, white-lipped.
“I think so,” said he, blankly. The man was dazed by the ordeal through which he had passed.
As if to answer and refute him, Joey’s hysterical yelp sounded from a point close at hand, and they distinctly heard Courtenay’s loud command:
“This way, Boyle! Rally to the bridge!”
“You are mistaken!” shrieked Elsie, wrenching herself free from the Chilean’s grasp. Nothing short of violence would stop her now. Tollemache darted out into the darkness, and she mounted the steps two at a time. Christobal panted by her side. He was determined not to be parted from her: if necessary, he would drag her away from any doubtful encounter on the battle-field of the deck. But his blood was aflame now with the lust of combat. He wished to die fighting rather than by a suicide’s bullet.
They were not yet clear of the doorway when an extraordinary burst of cheering and shouts in English and Spanish assailed their wondering ears. The sounds seemed to come from the sea, from some point very near to the ship. A loud hubbub arose among the Indians; Courtenay, clubbing his gun, rushed past, with the dog at his heels, and ran up the bridge companion. They could follow his progress as he raced towards the port side, and they heard his amazed cry:
“What boats are those?”
“Your own, captain,” came the answering yell, plainly audible above the din.
“That is Mr. Gray,” screamed Elsie, and she, too, ran towards the bridge, with the doctor close behind.
“Sink every canoe you can get alongside of, and knock those fellows on the head who are swimming,” roared Courtenay, who was so carried away by the fierceness of the fight from which he had just emerged that he would have given the same directions to the archangel Michael had that warrior-spirit come to his aid.