est sound warned of danger and I was already convinced in my own
mind that the refugees were not hiding there, when it happened. Within
an instant we were fighting for our lives, fronted not by two men, but
by a score, who flung themselves cursing upon us. Their very numbers
and the narrowness of the passage was our only salvation. At first our
resistance was blind enough, guided only by the senses of touch and
sound. We could see nothing of our antagonists, although their fierce
rush hurled us backward. I fired into the mass, as Watkins slashed
madly with his cutlass, both managing in some way to keep our feet.
Hands gripped for us, a bedlam of oaths splitting the air; yet, even
in that moment of pandemonium, I was quick to realize the fellows were
weaponless, seeking only to reach and crush us with bare hands. The
same discovery must have come to the mind of the sailor, for he yelled
it out defiantly, every stroke of his blade drawing blood. I joined
him, striking with the butt of the pistol, feeling within me the
strength of ten men, yet the very weight of them thrust us
remorselessly back. We killed and wounded, the curses of hate changed
into sharp cries of agony, but those behind pressed the advance
forward, and we were inevitably swept back into the light of the cabin
lamp.

Then I saw faces, hideous in the glare, demonical in their expression
of hatred--a mass of them, unrecognizable, largely of a wild,
half-Indian type, with here and there a bearded white. Nor were they
all bare-handed; in many a grip flashed a knife, and directly fronting
me, with a meat cleaver uplifted to strike, Sanchez yelled his orders.
Ignoring all others I leaped straight at him, crying to Watkins as I
sprang.

"Back lad; dash out that light; I'll hold these devils here a minute!"

I did---God knows how! It was like no fighting ever I had done before,
a mad, furious melee, amid which I lost all consciousness of action,
all guidance of thought, struggling as a wild brute, with all the
reckless strength of insanity. It is a dim, vague recollection; I am
sure I felled Sanchez with one blow of my pistol-butt, stretching him
apparently lifeless at my feet; in some way that deadly cleaver came
into my hands and I trod on his body, swinging the sharp blade with
all my might into those scowling faces. They gave sullenly backward;
they had to, yelping and snarling like a pack of wolves, hacking at me
with their short knives. I was cut again a