The captain remained as he was, his hands up, his mouth open: mesmerised with fury.
“March!” said Attwater. “One—two—three!”
And Davis turned and passed slowly away. But even as he went, he was meditating a prompt, offensive return. In the twinkling of an eye he had leaped behind a tree; and was crouching there, pistol in hand, peering from either side of his place of ambush with bared teeth; a serpent already poised to strike. And already he was too late. Attwater and his servants had disappeared; and only the lamps shone on the deserted table and the bright sand about the house, and threw into the night in all directions the strong and tall shadows of the palms.
Davis ground his teeth. Where were they gone, the cowards? to what hole had they retreated beyond reach? It was in vain he should try anything, he, single and with a second-hand revolver, against three persons, armed with Winchesters, and who did not show an ear out of any of the apertures of that lighted and silent house? Some of them might have already ducked below it from the rear, and be drawing a bead upon him at that moment from the low-browed crypt, the receptacle of empty bottles and broken crockery. No, there was nothing to be done but to bring away (if it were still possible) his shattered and demoralised forces.
“Huish,” he said, “come along.”
“’S lose my ciga’,” said Huish, reaching vaguely forward.
The captain let out a rasping oath. “Come right along here,” said he.
“’S all righ’. Sleep here ’th Atty-Attwa. Go boar’ t’morr’,” replied the festive one.
“If you don’t come, and come now, by the living God, I’ll shoot you!” cried the captain.
It is not to be supposed that the sense of these words in any way penetrated to the mind of Huish; rather that, in a fresh attempt upon the cigar, he overbalanced himself and came flying erratically forward: a course which brought him within reach of Davis.