upon the beaches, others high up
against the hill-sides--just such lights as Magalhaens beheld three and
a half centuries before, while passing through the strait which now
bears his name. [Note 1.] Hence, too, the name he bestowed on the
unknown country lying south of them, "Tierra del Fuego"--"Land of Fire."

The fugitives in the gig see fires on both shores--fifty or more--the
lurid flames symbolising the fierce implacable hostility of the savages
who have set them alight.

"We're boun' to keep on till we've got 'em all astarn," says Seagriff.
"So long's thar's a spark ahead, it'll be dangersome to put in. They'd
be for headin' us off jest the same to-morrer, ez thar's another long
narrer to pass atween this an' Darwin Soun'. 'Tair a bit lucky the
night bein' so dark that they can't sight us from the shore. If they
could, we'd 'a' had 'em out arter us now."

Under ordinary circumstances, the darkness would have made it difficult
for them to proceed. But, oddly enough, the very thing which forces
them to continue their retreat assists them in making it good, the fires
on either side being like so many beacon-lights, enabling them to hold a
course in mid-water. Thus guided, they run on as between two rows of
street lamps, fortunately so far from either that the spread sail
escapes being illumined by them. Fortunately, also, on reaching the
next narrow, where it would be otherwise seen, there is a mist over the
water. Screened by this, they succeed in passing through it
unperceived, and enter Darwin Sound just as day is breaking. Here
neither fires nor smokes are observed, a proof that they have passed out
of the territory of the tribe which had attacked them.

Still, they do not yet seek the shore; the wind is too temptingly in
their favour, and with sail up all day they run on into the north-west
arm of the Beagle Channel, at length bringing to in a small cove on its
southern side.

It is late afternoon when they make a landing; yet they have time to
choose a camping-place ere darkness comes on. Not much choice is there,
the only available spot being at the inner end of the cove. There a
niche in the rocky beach forms a sort of natural boat-dock, large enough
to admit the gig to moorings. And on the shore adjacent is the only
patch of bare ground visible; at all other points the trees grow to the
water's edge, with overhanging branches.

Confident now that their late pursuers have been shaken off,