"Guess a gunboat's been dropping a shell," observed Blight, who was the first to break the long-drawn silence.
"You are wrong," replied Mr. McKay quietly. "A shell would never throw out a cloud of smoke like that; it's not the colour of lyddite either."
"Then what is it? Who fired it?"
"Young Ellerton," was the astonishing reply.
Mr. McKay was correct in his surmise. Ellerton, on seeing his companions start in support of their coloured allies, was not altogether at his ease. He kept tacking the yawl, so as to be within easy distance of the landing-place in case of a hasty retreat on the part of the invaders.
Gradually the sounds of the running fight died away; but no report of firearms served to show that the white men had got in touch with their foes.
Seen from seaward the scrub seemed almost so thick as to be impassable. Mr. McKay and his companions were literally swallowed up in the trackless waste that lay beyond the low range of cliffs.
Ellerton looked around at the canoes. Beyond a man left in each as a boat-keeper they were deserted. Blight had vanished; when and where the young Englishman knew not.
Suddenly the distant report of a revolver burst upon his ears. He knew it to be a pistol shot, for it had not the short, sharp crack of a rifle. That meant foes at close quarters. Then came two other reports in quick succession, followed by a prolonged silence.
The firing reassured him. He realised that his friends were not with their savage allies, and that they were, in consequence, between the village and the beach. Rightly enough he guessed that they were dealing with a party of stragglers, the noise of only three shots and the absence of rifle-fire showed that the conflict was brief and decisive.