I was still a mile or more from the old ruin where I'd been a prisoner, when I heard shots. I soon cut away from the path, and stumbled through the jungle, in the direction of the sounds of battle. My mind was full with conjecture.
"It must be Jean Marat, and Norris, and the others from the Pearl," I said to myself at last. Robert must have signalled them last night, and now they were attacking.
When the sounds of firing told me I was near, I whistled a call. And then I came up with them. And there were Robert, and Ray with my rifle; and Ray had a story of his performance with the gun. "I peppered him at the south end, going northwards," he said, "and it's a hot tack he'll be sitting on every time he 'plunks' down on a stool."
For some reason those at the palace had ceased their firing. Maybe the unscathed blacks had taken their lesson of the things those two crack shots, Marat and Norris, had proven themselves able to do to every black head that showed round the edge of portal or stone wall. And perhaps those mysterious—silent—little missiles sent by Robert and Ray had also had a thing to do with it. Anyway, the old palace opposite, had become as silent as from its appearance it ought to be.
"Now, how did you get away?" demanded Robert.
"Yes, you might have stayed a while longer and let us have the credit of rescuing you," exclaimed Ray.
And so I told my tale. And next I had a word for Carlos. I'd been spoiling for this word from the moment of our reunion.
"Who was Amos?" I asked bluntly.
Carlos jerked himself erect at the word. He was caught with surprise.
"Amos, he is my brother," he said, still staring his wonder.