y of great quartz pebbles
whistled round their heads.

"Come on, Frank! for life's sake! Men, to the rescue! Ah! what was
that?"

The dull crash of a pebble against Frank's fair head! Drooping like
Hyacinthus beneath the blow of the quoit, he sank on Amyas's arm. The
giant threw him over his shoulder, and plunged blindly on,--himself
struck again and again.

"Fire, men! Give it the black villains!"

The arquebuses crackled from the boat in front. What were those
dull thuds which answered from behind? Echoes? No. Over his head the
caliver-balls went screeching. The governors' guard have turned out,
followed them to the beach, fixed their calivers, and are firing over
the negroes' heads, as the savages rush down upon the hapless brothers.

If, as all say, there are moments which are hours, how many hours was
Amyas Leigh in reaching that boat's bow? Alas! the negroes are there as
soon as he, and the guard, having left their calivers, are close behind
them, sword in hand. Amyas is up to his knees in water--battered with
stones--blinded with blood. The boat is swaying off and on against the
steep pebble-bank: he clutches at it--misses--falls headlong--rises
half-choked with water: but Frank is still in his arms. Another heavy
blow--a confused roar of shouts, shots, curses--a confused mass of
negroes and English, foam and pebbles--and he recollects no more.

* * * * *

He is lying in the stern-sheets of the boat; stiff, weak, half blind
with blood. He looks up; the moon is still bright overhead: but they are
away from the shore now, for the wave-crests are dancing white before
the land-breeze, high above the boat's side. The boat seems strangely
empty. Two men are pulling instead of six! And what is this lying heavy
across his chest? He pushes, and is answered by a groan. He puts his
hand down to rise, and is answered by another groan.

"What's this?"

"All that are left of us," says Simon Evans of Clovelly.

"All?" The bottom of the boat seemed paved with human bodies. "Oh
God! oh God!" moans Amyas, trying to rise. "And where--where is Frank?
Frank!"

"Mr. Frank!" cries Evans. There is no answer.

"Dead?" shrieks Amyas. "Look for him, for God's sake, look!" and
struggling from under his living load, he peers into each pale and
bleeding face.

"Where is he? Why don't you speak, forward there?"

"Because we have naught to say, sir," answers Evans, almost surlily.

Frank was not there.

"