he sea. The captain did not fear the
coast itself, for it had no rocks. But the lines deepened on his
weather-scarred face as he saw, gathering on the shelving beach, the
wild, yellow-haired men of the island.

The ship was being carried nearer and nearer to the coast. All on
board could now see the Men of the Shingle Beach waving their spears
and axes.

The current and the wind swung the ship still closer to the shore, and
now--even above the whistle of the gale in the cordage--the crew heard
the wild whoop of the wreckers. These men on the beach were the sons
of pirates. But they were now cowards compared with their fathers. For
they no longer lived by the wild sea-rover's fight that had made
their fathers' blood leap with the joy of the battle. They lived by
a crueller craft. Waiting till some such vessel as this was swept
ashore, they would swoop down on it, harry and slay the men, carry the
women and children off for slaves, break up the ship and take the wood
and stores for fire and food. They were beach-combers.

An extra swing of the tide, a great wave--and with a thud the ship was
aground, stuck fast on the yielding sands. With a wild yell, and with
their tawny manes streaming in the wind, the wreckers rushed down the
beach brandishing their spears.

Wilfrid, striding to the side of the ship, raised his hand to show
that he wished to speak to the chief. But the island men rushed on
like an avalanche and started to storm the ship. Snatching up arms,
poles, rope-ends--whatever they could find--the men on board beat down
upon the heads of the savages as they climbed up the ship's slippery
side. One man after another sank wounded on the deck. The fight grew
more obstinate, but at last the men of the beach drew back up the
sands, baffled.

The Men of the Shingle Beach might have given up the battle had not
a fierce priest of their god of war leapt on to a mound of sand, and,
lifting his naked arms to the skies, called on the god to destroy the
men in the ship.

The savages were seized with a new frenzy and swept down the beach
again. Wilfrid had gathered his closest friends round him and was
quietly kneeling on the deck praying to his God for deliverance from
the enemy. The fight became desperate. Again the savages were driven
back up the beach.

Once more they rallied and came swooping down on the ship. But a
pebble from the sling of a man on the ship struck the savage priest
on the forehead; he tottered