Residents in tropical countries know that the heat is greatest, or
certainly least bearable, between two and four o'clock in the
afternoon.
At the conclusion of a not very luscious repast, Jenks suggested that
they should rig up the tarpaulin in such wise as to gain protection
from the sun and yet enable him to cast a watchful eye over the valley.
Iris helped to raise the great canvas sheet on the supports he had
prepared.
Once shut off from the devouring sun rays, the hot breeze
then springing into fitful existence cooled their blistered but
perspiring skin and made life somewhat tolerable.
Still adhering to his policy of combatting the first enervating attacks
of thirst, the sailor sanctioned the consumption of the remaining
water. As a last desperate expedient, to be resorted to only in case of
sheer necessity, he uncorked a bottle of champagne and filled the tin
cup. The sparkling wine, with its volume of creamy foam, looked so
tempting that Iris would then and there have risked its potency were
she not promptly withheld.
Jenks explained to her that when the wine became quite flat and insipid
they might use it to moisten their parched lips. Even so, in their
present super-heated state, the liquor was unquestionably dangerous,
but he hoped it would not harm them if taken in minute quantities.
Accustomed now to implicitly accept his advice, she fought and steadily
conquered the craving within her. Oddly enough, the "thawing" of their
scorched bodies beneath the tarpaulin brought a certain degree of
relief. They were supremely uncomfortable, but that was as naught
compared with the relaxation from the torments previously borne.
For a long time--the best part of an hour, perhaps--they remained
silent.
The sailor was reviewing the pros and cons of their precarious
condition. It would, of course, be a matter of supreme importance were
the Indian to be faithful to his promise. Here the prospect was
decidedly hopeful. The man was an old sowar, and the ex-officer
of native cavalry knew how enduring was the attachment of this poor
convict to home and military service. Probably at that moment the
Mahommedan was praying to the Prophet and his two nephews to aid him in
rescuing the sahib and the woman whom the sahib held so dear, for the
all-wise and all-powerful Sirkar is very merciful to offending natives
who thus condone their former crimes.
But, howsoever willing he might be, what could one man do among so
many? The Dyaks were hostile to him in race and creed, and assuredly
infuriated against the foreign devil who had killed or wounded, in
round numbers, one-fifth of their total force. Very likely, the hapless
Mussulman would lose his life that night in attempting to bring water
to the foot of the rock.
Well, he, Jenks, might have something to say in that regard. By
midnight the moon would illumine nearly the whole of Prospect Park. If
the Mahommedan were slain in front of the cavern his soul would travel
to the next world attended by a Nizam's cohort of slaughtered slaves.
Even if the man succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his present
associates, where was the water to come from? There was none on the
island save that in the well. In all likelihood the Dyaks had a store
in the remaining sampans, but the native ally of the beleaguered pair
would have a task of exceeding difficulty in obtaining one of the jars
or skins containing it.
Again, granting all things went well that night, what would be the
final outcome of the struggle? How long could Iris withstand the
exposure, the strain, the heart-breaking misery of the rock? The future
was blurred, crowded with ugly and affrighting fiends passing in
fantastic array before his vision, and mouthing dumb threats of madness
and death.
He shook restlessly, not aware that the girl's sorrowful glance,
luminous with love and pain, was fixed upon him. Summarily dismissing
these grisly phantoms of the mind, he asked himself what the Mahommedan
exactly meant by warning him against the trees on the right and the
"silent death" that might come from them. He was about to crawl forth
to the lip of the rock and investigate matters in that locality when
Iris, who also was busy with her thoughts, restrained him.
"Wait a little while," she said. "None of the Dyaks will venture into
the open until night falls. And I have something to say to you."
There was a quiet solemnity in her voice that Jenks had never heard
before. It chilled him. His heart acknowledged a quick sense of evil
omen. He raised himself slightly and turned towards her. Her face,
beautiful and serene beneath its disfigurements, wore an expression of
settled purpose. For the life of him he dared not question her.
"That man, the interpreter," she said, "told you that if I were given
up to the chief, he and his followers would go away and molest you no
more."
His forehead seamed with sudden anger.
"A mere bait," he protested. "In any event it is hardly worth
discussion."
And the answer came, clear and resolute--
"I think I will agree to those terms."
At first he regarded her with undisguised and wordless amazement. Then
the appalling thought darted through his brain that she contemplated
this supreme sacrifice in order to save him. A clammy sweat bedewed his
brow, but by sheer will power he contrived to say--
"You must be mad to even dream of such a thing. Don't you understand
what it means to you--and to me? It is a ruse to trap us. They are
ungoverned savages. Once they had you in their power they would laugh
at a promise made to me."
"You may be mistaken. They must have some sense of fair dealing. Even
assuming that such was their intention, they may depart from it. They
have already lost a great many men. Their chief, having gained his main
object, might not be able to persuade them to take further risks. I
will make it a part of the bargain that they first supply you with
plenty of water. Then you, unaided, could keep them at bay for many
days. We lose nothing; we can gain a great deal by endeavoring to
pacify them."
"Iris!" he gasped, "what are you saying?"
The unexpected sound of her name on his lips almost unnerved her. But
no martyr ever went to the stake with more settled purpose than this
pure woman, resolved to immolate herself for the sake of the man she
loved. He had dared all for her, faced death in many shapes. Now it was
her turn. Her eyes were lit with a seraphic fire, her sweet face
resigned as that of an angel.
"I have thought it out," she murmured, gazing at him steadily, yet
scarce seeing him. "It is worth trying as a last expedient. We are
abandoned by all, save the Lord; and it does not appear to be His holy
will to help us on earth. We can struggle on here until we die. Is that
right, when one of us may live?"
Her very candor had betrayed her. She would go away with these
monstrous captors, endure them, even flatter them, until she and they
were far removed from the island. And then--she would kill herself. In
her innocence she imagined that self-destruction, under such
circumstances, was a pardonable offence. She only gave a life to save a
life, and greater love than this is not known to God or man.
The sailor, in a tempest of wrath and wild emotion, had it in his mind
to compel her into reason, to shake her, as one shakes a wayward child.
He rose to his knees with this half-formed notion in his fevered brain.
Then he looked at her, and a mist seemed to shut her out from his
sight. Was she lost to him already? Was all that had gone before an
idle dream of joy and grief, a wizard's glimpse of mirrored happiness
and vague perils? Was Iris, the crystal-souled--thrown to him by the
storm-lashed waves--to be snatched away by some irresistible and malign
influence?
In the mere physical effort to assure himself that she was still near
to him he gathered her up in his strong hands. Yes, she was there,
breathing, wondering, palpitating. He folded her closely to his breast,
and, yielding to the passionate longings of his tired heart, whispered
to her--
"My darling, do you think I can survive your loss? You are life itself
to me. If we have to die, sweet one, let us die together."
Then Iris flung her arms around his neck.
"I am quite, quite happy now," she sobbed brokenly. "I
didn't--imagine--it would come--this way, but--I am thankful--it has
come."
For a little while they yielded to the glamour of the divine knowledge
that amidst the chaos of eternity each soul had found its mate. There
was no need for words. Love, tremendous in its power, unfathomable in
its mystery, had cast its spell over them. They were garbed in light,
throned in a palace built by fairy hands. On all sides squatted the
ghouls of privation, misery, danger, even grim death; but they heeded
not the Inferno; they had created a Paradise in an earthly hell.
Then Iris withdrew herself from the man's embrace. She was delightfully
shy and timid now.
"So you really do love me?" she whispered, crimson-faced, with shining
eyes and parted lips.
He drew her to him again and kissed her tenderly. For he had cast all
doubt to the winds. No matter what the future had in store she was his,
his only; it was not in man's power to part them. A glorious effulgence
dazzled his brain. Her love had given him the strength of Goliath, the
confidence of David. He would pluck her from the perils that environed
her. The Dyak was not yet born who should rend her from him.
He fondled her hair and gently rubbed her cheek with his rough fingers.
The sudden sense of ownership of this fair woman was entrancing. It
almost bewildered him to find Iris nestling close, clinging to him in
utter confidence and trust.
"But I knew, I knew," she murmured. "You betrayed yourself so many
times. You wrote your secret to me, and, though you did not tell me, I
found your dear words on the sands, and have treasured them next my
heart."
What girlish romance was this? He held her away gingerly, just so far
that he could look into her eyes.
"Oh, it is true, quite true," she cried, drawing the locket from her
neck. "Don't you recognize your own handwriting, or were you not
certain, just then, that you really did love me?"
Dear, dear! How often would she repeat that wondrous phrase! Together
they bent over the tiny slips of paper. There it was again--"I love
you"--twice blazoned in magic symbols. With blushing eagerness she told
him how, by mere accident of course, she caught sight of her own name.
It was not very wrong, was it, to pick up that tiny scrap, or those
others, which she could not help seeing, and which unfolded their
simple tale so truthfully? Wrong! It was so delightfully right that he
must kiss her again to emphasize his convictions.
All this fondling and love-making had, of course, an air of grotesque
absurdity because indulged in by two grimy and tattered individuals
crouching beneath a tarpaulin on a rocky ledge, and surrounded by
bloodthirsty savages intent on their destruction. Such incidents
require the setting of convention, the conservatory, with its wealth of
flowers and plants, a summer wood, a Chippendale drawing-room. And yet,
God wot, men and women have loved each other in this grey old world
without stopping to consider the appropriateness of place and season.
After a delicious pause Iris began again----
"Robert--I must call you Robert now--there, there, please let me get a
word in even edgeways--well then, Robert dear, I do not care much what
happens now. I suppose it was very wicked and foolish of me to speak as
I did before--before you called me Iris. Now tell me at once. Why did
you call me Iris?"
"You must propound that riddle to your godfather."
"No wriggling, please. Why did you do it?"
"Because I could not help myself. It slid out unawares."
"How long have you thought of me only as Iris, your Iris?"
"Ever since I first understood that somewhere in the wide world was a
dear woman to love me and be loved."
"But at one time you thought her name was Elizabeth?"
"A delusion, a mirage! That is why those who christened you had the
wisdom of the gods."
Another interlude. They grew calmer, more sedate. It was so undeniably
true they loved one another that the fact was becoming venerable with
age. Iris was perhaps the first to recognize its quiet certainty.
"As I cannot get you to talk reasonably," she protested, "I must appeal
to your sympathy. I am hungry, and oh, so thirsty."
The girl had hardly eaten a morsel for her midday meal. Then she was
despondent, utterly broken-hearted. Now she was filled with new hope.
There was a fresh motive in existence. Whether destined to live an hour
or half a century, she would never, never leave him, nor, of course,
could he ever, ever leave her. Some things were quite impossible--for
example, that they should part.
Jenks brought her a biscuit, a tin of meat, and that most doleful cup
of champagne.
"It is not exactly frappé," he said, handing her the insipid
beverage, "but, under other conditions, it is a wine almost worthy to
toast you in."
She fancied she had never before noticed what a charming smile he had.
"'Toast' is a peculiarly suitable word," she cried. "I am simply
frizzling. In these warm clothes----"
She stopped. For the first time since that prehistoric period when she
was "Miss Deane" and he "Mr. Jenks" she remembered the manner of her
garments.
"It is not the warm clothing you feel so much as the want of air,"
explained the sailor readily. "This tarpaulin has made the place very
stuffy, but we must put up with it until sundown. By the way, what is
that?"
A light tap on the tarred canvas directly over his head had caught his
ear. Iris, glad of the diversion, told him she had heard the noise
three or four times, but fancied it was caused by the occasional
rustling of the sheet on the uprights.
Jenks had not allowed his attention to wander altogether from external
events. Since the Dyaks' last escapade there was no sign of them in the
valley or on either beach. Not for trivial cause would they come again
within range of the Lee-Metfords.
They waited and listened silently. Another tap sounded on the tarpaulin
in a different place, and they both concurred in the belief that
something had darted in curved flight over the ledge and fallen on top
of their protecting shield.
"Let us see what the game is," exclaimed the sailor. He crept to the
back of the ledge and drew himself up until he could reach over the
sheet. He returned, carrying in his hand a couple of tiny arrows.
"There are no less than seven of these things sticking in the canvas,"
he said. "They don't look very terrible. I suppose that is what my
Indian friend meant by warning me against the trees on the right."
He did not tell Iris all the Mahommedan said. There was no need to
alarm her causelessly. Even whilst they examined the curious little
missile another flew up from the valley and lodged on the roof of their
shelter.
The shaft of the arrow, made of some extremely hard wood, was about ten
inches in length. Affixed to it was a pointed fish-bone, sharp, but not
barbed, and not fastened in a manner suggestive of much strength. The
arrow was neither feathered nor grooved for a bowstring. Altogether it
seemed to be a childish weapon to be used by men equipped with lead and
steel.
Jenks could not understand the appearance of this toy. Evidently the
Dyaks believed in its efficacy, or they would not keep on
pertinaciously dropping an arrow on the ledge.
"How do they fire it?" asked Iris. "Do they throw it?"
"I will soon tell you," he replied, reaching for a rifle.
"Do not go out yet," she entreated him. "They cannot harm us. Perhaps
we may learn more by keeping quiet. They will not continue shooting
these things all day."
Again a tiny arrow traveled towards them in a graceful parabola. This
one fell short. Missing the tarpaulin, it almost dropped on the girl's
outstretched hand. She picked it up. The fish-bone point had snapped by
contact with the floor of the ledge.
She sought for and found the small tip.
"See," she said. "It seems to have been dipped in something. It is
quite discolored."
Jenks frowned peculiarly. A startling explanation had suggested itself
to him. Fragments of forgotten lore were taking cohesion in his mind.
"Put it down. Quick!" he cried.
Iris obeyed him, with wonder in her eyes. He spilled a teasponful of
champagne into a small hollow of the rock and steeped one of the
fish-bones in the liquid. Within a few seconds the champagne assumed a
greenish tinge and the bone became white. Then he knew.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, "these are poisoned arrows shot through a
blowpipe. I have never before seen one, but I have often read about
them. The bamboos the Dyaks carried were sumpitans. These fish-bones
have been steeped in the juice of the upas tree. Iris, my dear girl, if
one of them had so much as scratched your finger nothing on earth could
save you."
She paled and drew back in sudden horror. This tiny thing had taken the
semblance of a snake. A vicious cobra cast at her feet would be less
alarming, for the reptile could be killed, whilst his venomous fangs
would only be used in self-defence.
Another tap sounded on their thrice-welcome covering. Evidently the
Dyaks would persist in their efforts to get one of those poisoned darts
home.
Jenks debated silently whether it would be better to create a
commotion, thus inducing the savages to believe they had succeeded in
inflicting a mortal wound, or to wait until the next arrow fell, rush
out, and try conclusions with Dum-dum bullets against the sumpitan
blowers.
He decided in favor of the latter course. He wished to dishearten his
assailants, to cram down their throats the belief that he was
invulnerable, and could visit their every effort with a deadly
reprisal.
Iris, of course, protested when he explained his project. But the
fighting spirit prevailed. Their love idyll must yield to the needs of
the hour.
He had not long to wait. The last arrow fell, and he sprang to the
extreme right of the ledge. First he looked through that invaluable
screen of grass. Three Dyaks were on the ground, and a fourth in the
fork of a tree. They were each armed with a blowpipe. He in the tree
was just fitting an arrow into the bamboo tube. The others were
watching him.
Jenks raised his rifle, fired, and the warrior in the tree pitched
headlong to the ground. A second shot stretched a companion on top of
him. One man jumped into the bushes and got away, but the fourth
tripped over his unwieldy sumpitan and a bullet tore a large section
from his skull. The sailor then amused himself with breaking the
bamboos by firing at them. He came back to the white-faced girl.
"I fancy that further practice with blowpipes will be at a discount on
Rainbow Island," he cried cheerfully.
But Iris was anxious and distrait.
"It is very sad," she said, "that we are obliged to secure our own
safety by the ceaseless slaughter of human beings. Is there no offer we
can make them, no promise of future gain, to tempt them to abandon
hostilities?"
"None whatever. These Borneo Dyaks are bred from infancy to prey on
their fellow-creatures. To be strangers and defenceless is to court
pillage and massacre at their hands. I think no more of shooting them
than of smashing a clay pigeon. Killing a mad dog is perhaps a better
simile."
"But, Robert dear, how long can we hold out?"
"What! Are you growing tired of me already?"
He hoped to divert her thoughts from this constantly recurring topic.
Twice within the hour had it been broached and dismissed, but Iris
would not permit him to shirk it again. She made no reply, simply
regarding him with a wistful smile.
So Jenks sat down by her side, and rehearsed the hopes and fears which
perplexed him. He determined that there should be no further
concealment between them. If they failed to secure water that night, if
the Dyaks maintained a strict siege of the rock throughout the whole of
next day, well--they might survive--it was problematical. Best leave
matters in God's hands.
With feminine persistency she clung to the subject, detecting his
unwillingness to discuss a possible final stage in their sufferings.
"Robert!" she whispered fearfully, "you will never let me fall into the
power of the chief, will you?"
"Not whilst I live."
"You must live. Don't you understand? I would go with them to
save you. But I would have died--by my own hand. Robert, my love, you
must do this thing before the end. I must be the first to die."
He hung his head in a paroxysm of silent despair. Her words rung like a
tocsin of the bright romance conjured up by the avowal of their love.
It seemed to him, in that instant, they had no separate existence as
distinguished from the great stream of human life--the turbulent river
that flowed unceasingly from an eternity of the past to an eternity of
the future. For a day, a year, a decade, two frail bubbles danced on
the surface and raced joyously together in the sunshine; then they were
broken--did it matter how, by savage sword or lingering ailment? They
vanished--absorbed again by the rushing waters--and other bubbles rose
in precarious iridescence. It was a fatalist view of life, a dim and
obscurantist groping after truth induced by the overpowering nature of
present difficulties. The famous Tentmaker of Naishapur blindly sought
the unending purpose when he wrote:--
"Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate,
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-Knot of Human Fate.
"There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I could not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me."
The sailor, too, wrestled with the great problem. He may be pardoned if
his heart quailed and he groaned aloud.
"Iris," he said solemnly, "whatever happens, unless I am struck dead at
your feet, I promise you that we shall pass the boundary hand in hand.
Be mine the punishment if we have decided wrongly. And now," he cried,
tossing his head in a defiant access of energy, "let us have done with
the morgue. For my part I refuse to acknowledge I am inside until the
gates clang behind me. As for you, you cannot help yourself. You must
do as I tell you. I never knew of a case where the question of Woman's
Rights was so promptly settled."
His vitality was infectious. Iris smiled again. Her sensitive highly
strung nerves permitted these sharp alternations between despondency
and hope.
"You must remember," he went on, "that the Dyak score is twenty-one to
the bad, whilst our loss stands at love. Dear me, that cannot be right.
Love is surely not a loss."
"A cynic might describe it as a negative gain."
"Oh, a cynic is no authority. He knows nothing whatever about the
subject."
"My father used to say, when he was in Parliament, that people who knew
least oft-times spoke best. Some men get overweighted with facts."
They chatted in lighter vein with such pendulum swing back to
nonchalance that none would have deemed it possible for these two to
have already determined the momentous issue of the pending struggle
should it go against them. There is, glory be, in the Anglo-Saxon race
the splendid faculty of meeting death with calm defiance, almost with
contempt. Moments of panic, agonizing memories of bygone days, visions
of dear faces never to be seen again, may temporarily dethrone this
proud fortitude. But the tremors pass, the gibbering specters of fear
and lamentation are thrust aside, and the sons and daughters of Great
Britain answer the last roll-call with undaunted heroism. They know how
to die.
And so the sun sank to rest in the sea, and the star, pierced the
deepening blue of the celestial arch, whilst the man and the woman
awaited patiently the verdict of the fates.
Before the light failed, Jenks gathered all the poisoned arrows and
ground their vemoned points to powder beneath his heel. Gladly would
Iris and he have dispensed with the friendly protection of the
tarpaulin when the cool evening breeze came from the south. But such a
thing might not be even considered. Several hours of darkness must
elapse before the moon rose, and during that period, were their foes so
minded, they would be absolutely at the mercy of the sumpitan shafts if
not covered by their impenetrable buckler.
The sailor looked long and earnestly at the well. Their own bucket,
improvised out of a dish-cover and a rope, lay close to the brink. A
stealthy crawl across the sandy valley, half a minute of grave danger,
and he would be up the ladder again with enough water to serve their
imperative needs for days to come.
There was little or no risk in descending the rock. Soon after sunset
it was wrapped in deepest gloom, for night succeeds day in the tropics
with wondrous speed. The hazard lay in twice crossing the white sand,
were any of the Dyaks hiding behind the house or among the trees.
He held no foolhardy view of his own powers. The one-sided nature of
the conflict thus far was due solely to his possession of Lee-Metfords
as opposed to muzzle-loaders. Let him be surrounded on the level at
close quarters by a dozen determined men and he must surely succumb.
Were it not for the presence of Iris he would have given no second
thought to the peril. It was just one of those undertakings which a
soldier jumps at. "Here goes for the V.C. or Kingdom Come!" is the
pithy philosophy of Thomas Atkins under such circumstances.
Now, there was no V.C., but there was Iris.
To act without consulting her was impossible, so they discussed the
project. Naturally she scouted it.
"The Mahommedan may be able to help us," she pointed out. "In any event
let us wait until the moon wanes. That is the darkest hour. We do not
know what may happen meanwhile."
The words had hardly left her mouth when an irregular volley was fired
at them from the right flank of the enemy's position. Every bullet
struck yards above their heads, the common failing of musketry at night
being to take too high an aim. But the impact of the missiles on a rock
so highly impregnated with minerals caused sparks to fly, and Jenks saw
that the Dyaks would obtain by this means a most dangerous index of
their faulty practice. Telling Iris to at once occupy her safe corner,
he rapidly adjusted a rifle on the wooden rests already prepared in
anticipation of an attack from that quarter, and fired three shots at
the opposing crest, whence came the majority of gun-flashes.
One, at least, of the three found a human billet. There was a shout of
surprise and pain, and the next volley spurted from the ground level.
This could do no damage owing to the angle, but he endeavored to
disconcert the marksmen by keeping up a steady fire in their direction.
He did not dream of attaining other than a moral effect, as there is a
lot of room to miss when aiming in the dark. Soon he imagined that the
burst of flame from his rifle helped the Dyaks, because several bullets
whizzed close to his head, and about this time firing recommenced from
the crest.
Notwithstanding all his skill and manipulation of the wooden supports,
he failed to dislodge the occupants. Every minute one or more ounces of
lead pitched right into the ledge, damaging the stores and tearing the
tarpaulin, whilst those which struck the wall of rock were dangerous to
Iris by reason of the molten spray.
He could guess what had happened. By lying flat on the sloping plateau,
or squeezing close to the projecting shoulder of the cliff, the Dyaks
were so little exposed that idle chance alone would enable him to hit
one of them. But they must be shifted, or this night bombardment would
prove the most serious development yet encountered.
"Are you all right, Iris?" he called out.
"Yes, dear," she answered.
"Well, I want you to keep yourself covered by the canvas for a little
while--especially your head and shoulders. I am going to stop these
chaps. They have found our weak point, but I can baffle them."
She did not ask what he proposed to do. He heard the rustling of the
tarpaulin as she pulled it. Instantly he cast loose the rope-ladder,
and, armed only with a revolver, dropped down the rock. He was quite
invisible to the enemy. On reaching the ground he listened for a
moment. There was no sound save the occasional reports ninety yards
away. He hitched up the lower rungs of the ladder until they were six
feet from the level, and then crept noiselessly, close to the rock, for
some forty yards.
He halted beside a small poon-tree, and stooped to find something
embedded near its roots. At this distance he could plainly hear the
muttered conversation of the Dyaks, and could see several of them prone
on the sand. The latter fact proved how fatal would be an attempt on
his part to reach the well. They must discover him instantly once he
quitted the somber shadows of the cliff. He waited, perhaps a few
seconds longer than was necessary, endeavoring to pierce the dim
atmosphere and learn something of their disposition.
A vigorous outburst of firing sent him back with haste. Iris was up
there alone. He knew not what might happen. He was now feverishly
anxious to be with her again, to hear her voice, and be sure that all
was well.
To his horror he found the ladder swaying gently against the rock. Some
one was using it. He sprang forward, careless of consequence, and
seized the swinging end which had fallen free again. He had his foot on
the bottom rung when Iris's voice, close at hand and shrill with
terror, shrieked--
"Robert, where are you?"
"Here!" he shouted; the next instant she dropped into his arms.
A startled exclamation from the vicinity of the house, and some loud
cries from the more distant Dyaks on the other side of Prospect Park,
showed that they had been overheard.
"Up!" he whispered. "Hold tight, and go as quickly as you can."
"Not without you!"
"Up, for God's sake! I follow at your heels."
She began to climb. He took some article from between his teeth, a
string apparently, and drew it towards him, mounting the ladder at the
same time. The end tightened. He was then about ten feet from the
ground. Two Dyaks, yelling fiercely, rushed from the cover of the
house.
"Go on," he said to Iris. "Don't lose your nerve whatever happens. I am
close behind you."
"I am quite safe," she gasped.
Turning, and clinging on with one hand, he drew his revolver and fired
at the pair beneath, who could now faintly discern them, and were
almost within reach of the ladder. The shooting made them halt. He did
not know or care if they were hit. To frighten them was sufficient.
Several others were running across the sands to the cave, attracted by
the noise and the cries of the foremost pursuers.
Then he gave a steady pull to the cord. The sharp crack of a rifle came
from the vicinity of the old quarry. He saw the flash among the trees.
Almost simultaneously a bright light leapt from the opposite ledge,
illumining the vicinity like a meteor. It lit up the rock, showed Iris
just vanishing into the safety of the ledge, and revealed Jenks and the
Dyaks to each other. There followed instantly a tremendous explosion
that shook earth and air, dislodging every loose stone in the
south-west pile of rocks, hurling from the plateau some of its
occupants, and wounding the remainder with a shower of lead and débris.
The island birds, long since driven to the remote trees, clamored in
raucous peal, and from the Dyaks came yells of fright or anguish.
The sailor, unmolested further, reached the ledge to find Iris
prostrate where she had fallen, dead or unconscious, he knew not which.
He felt his face become grey in the darkness. With a fierce tug he
hauled the ladder well away from the ground and sank to his knees
beside her.
He took her into his arms. There was no light. He could not see her
eyes or lips. Her slight breathing seemed to indicate a fainting fit,
but there was no water, nor was it possible to adopt any of the
ordinary expedients suited to such a seizure. He could only wait in a
dreadful silence--wait, clasping her to his breast--and dumbly wonder
what other loss he could suffer ere the final release came.
At last she sighed deeply. A strong tremor of returning life stirred
her frame.
"Thank God!" he murmured, and bowed his head. Were the sun shining he
could not see her now, for his eyes were blurred.
"Robert!" she whispered.
"Yes, darling."
"Are you safe?"
"Safe! my loved one! Think of yourself! What has happened to you?"
"I fainted--I think. I have no hurt. I missed you! Something told me
you had gone. I went to help you, or die with you. And then that noise!
And the light! What did you do?"
He silenced her questioning with a passionate kiss. He carried her to a
little nook and fumbled among the stores until he found a bottle of
brandy. She drank some. Under its revivifying influence she was soon
able to listen to the explanation he offered--after securing the
ladder.
In a tall tree near the Valley of Death he had tightly fixed a loaded
rifle which pointed at a loose stone in the rock overhanging the ledge
held by the Dyaks. This stone rested against a number of percussion
caps extracted from cartridges, and these were in direct communication
with a train of powder leading to a blasting charge placed at the end
of a twenty-four inch hole drilled with a crowbar. The impact of the
bullet against the stone could not fail to explode some of the caps. He
had used the contents of three hundred cartridges to secure a
sufficiency of powder, and the bullets were all crammed into the
orifice, being tamped with clay and wet sand. The rifle was fired by
means of the string, the loose coils of which were secreted at the foot
of the poon. By springing this novel mine he had effectually removed
every Dyak from the ledge, over which its contents would spread like a
fan. Further, it would probably deter the survivors from again
venturing near that fatal spot.
Iris listened, only half comprehending. Her mind was filled with one
thought to the exclusion of all others. Robert had left her, had done
this thing without telling her. She forgave him, knowing he acted for
the best, but he must never, never deceive her again in such a manner.
She could not bear it.
What better excuse could man desire for caressing her, yea, even
squeezing her, until the sobs ceased and she protested with a weak
little laugh----
"Robert, I haven't got much breath--after that excitement--but
please--leave me--the remains!"