le, the body thrown
into the sea, the pitiful screams for mercy! And yet the greater
wonder, perhaps, that we lived to tell of it. Twelve against three; yet
a craven twelve, remember, who feared to die and yet must fight to
live! And to nerve our arms a woman's honour, and to guide us aright,
the watchword: "Home!"

I fought my way to the water's edge, and then turned round to see what
the others were doing. There were two upon Peter Bligh at that moment,
but one fell headlong as I took a step towards them; and the other's
driving-knife fell on empty air, and the man himself, struck full
between the eyes, rolled dead into the lapping sea.

"Well done, Peter, well done!" I cried, wildly; and then, as though it
were an answer to my boasts, something fell upon my shoulder like a
great weight dropped from above, and I went down headlong upon the
rock. Turning as I fell, I clutched a human throat, and, closing my
fingers upon it, he and I, the man out of the darkness and the fool who
had forgotten his eyes, went reeling over and over like wild beasts
that seek a hold and would tear and bite when the moment comes. Aye,
how I held him, how near his eyes seemed to mine, what gasping sounds
he uttered, how his feet fought for foothold on the rock, how his hand
felt for the knife at his girdle! And I had him always, had him surely;
and seeking to force himself upward, the slippery rock gave him no
foothold, and he slipped at last froth my very fingers, and some great
fish, hidden from me, drew him down to the water and I saw the waves
close above his mouth. Henceforth there were but three men left at the
gate of Czerny's house. They were three who, even at that time, could
thank God because the peril was turned.

* * *

We beat the twelve off, as I have told you, and for an hour at least no
fresh attack was made on the rock. The sharpest eye now could not
detect boats in the darkness; the sharpest ear could not distinguish
the muffled splash of oars. We lay all together in the turret, and very
methodically, as seamen will, we stanched our wounds and asked, "What
next?" That we had some hurt of such an affray goes without saying. My
own shoulder was bruised and aching; the blood still trickled down
Peter Bligh's honest face from the knife-wound that had gashed his
forehead; Seth Barker pressed his hand to a jagged side and said that
it was nothing. But for these scratches we cared little, and when our
comrades hailed us from