The Wings of the Morning

He could not pierce the future, and it was useless to vex his soul with

questionings as to what might happen next week. The great certainty of

the hour was Iris--the blue-eyed, smiling divinity who had come into

his life--waiting for him down there beyond the trees, waiting to

welcome him with a sweet-voiced greeting; and he knew, with a fierce

devouring joy, that her cheek would not pale nor her lip tremble when

he announced that at least another sun must set before the expected

relief reached them.

He replaced the glasses in their case and dived into the wood, giving a

passing thought to the fact that the wind, after blowing steadily from

the south for nearly a week, had veered round to the north-east during

the night. Did the change portend a storm? Well, they were now prepared

for all such eventualities, and he had not forgotten that they

possessed, among other treasures, a box of books for rainy days. And a

rainy day with Iris for company! What gale that ever blew could offer

such compensation for enforced idleness?

The morning sped in uneventful work. Iris did not neglect her cherished

pitcher-plant. After luncheon it was her custom now to carry a dishful

of water to its apparently arid roots, and she rose to fulfil her

self-imposed task.

"Let me help you," said Jenks. "I am not very busy this afternoon."

"No, thank you. I simply won't allow you to touch that shrub. The dear

thing looks quite glad to see me. It drinks up the water as greedily as

a thirsty animal."

"Even a cabbage has a heart, Miss Deane."

She laughed merrily. "I do believe you are offering me a compliment,"

she said. "I must indeed have found favor in your eyes."

He had schooled himself to resist the opening given by this class of

retort, so he turned to make some corrections in the scale of the

sun-dial he had constructed, aided therein by daily observations with

the sextant left by the former inhabitant of the cave.

Iris had been gone perhaps five minutes when he heard a distant shriek,

twice repeated, and then there came faintly to his ears his own name,

not "Jenks," but "Robert," in the girl's voice. Something terrible had

happened. It was a cry of supreme distress. Mortal agony or

overwhelming terror alone could wring that name from her lips.

Precisely in such moments this man acted with the decision, the

unerring judgment, the instantaneous acceptance of great risk to

accomplish great results, that marked him out as a born soldier.

He rushed into the house and snatched from the rifle-rack one of the

six Lee-Metfords reposing there in apple-pie order, each with a filled

magazine attached and a cartridge already in position.

Then he ran, with long swift strides, not through the trees, where he

could see nothing, but towards the beach, whence, in forty yards, the

place where Iris probably was would become visible.

At once he saw her, struggling in the grasp of two ferocious-looking

Dyaks, one, by his garments, a person of consequence, the other a

half-naked savage, hideous and repulsive in appearance. Around them

seven men, armed with guns and parangs, were dancing with excitement.

Iris's captors were endeavoring to tie her arms, but she was a strong

and active Englishwoman, with muscles well knit by the constant labor

of recent busy days and a frame developed by years of horse-riding and

tennis-playing. The pair evidently found her a tough handful, and the

inferior Dyak, either to stop her screams--for she was shrieking

"Robert, come to me!" with all her might--or to stifle her into

submission, roughly placed his huge hand over her mouth.

These things the sailor noticed instantly. Some men, brave to rashness,

ready as he to give his life to save her, would have raced madly over

the intervening ground, scarce a furlong, and attempted a heroic combat

of one against nine.

Not so Jenks.

With the methodical exactness of the parade-ground he settled down on

one knee and leveled the rifle. At that range the Lee-Metford bullet

travels practically point-blank. Usually it is deficient in "stopping"

power, but he had provided against this little drawback by notching all

the cartridges in the six rifles after the effective manner devised by

an expert named Thomas Atkins during the Tirah campaign.

None of the Dyaks saw him. All were intent on the sensational prize

they had secured, a young and beautiful white woman so contentedly

roaming about the shores of this Fetish island. With the slow speed

advised by the Roman philosopher, the backsight and foresight of the

Lee-Metford came into line with the breast of the coarse brute

clutching the girl's face.

Then something bit him above the heart and simultaneously tore half of

his back into fragments. He fell, with a queer sob, and the others

turned to face this unexpected danger.

Iris, knowing only that she was free from that hateful grasp, wrenched

herself free from the chief's hold, and ran with all her might along

the beach, to Jenks and safety.

Again, and yet again, the rifle gave its short, sharp snarl, and two

more Dyaks collapsed on the sand. Six were left, their leader being

still unconsciously preserved from death by the figure of the flying

girl.

A fourth Dyak dropped.

The survivors, cruel savages but not cowards, unslung their guns. The

sailor, white-faced, grim, with an unpleasant gleam in his deep-set

eyes and a lower jaw protruding, noticed their preparations.

"To the left!" he shouted. "Run towards the trees!"

Iris heard him and strove to obey. But her strength was failing her,

and she staggered blindly. After a few despairing efforts she lurched

feebly to her knees, and tumbled face downwards on the broken coral

that had tripped her faltering footsteps.

Jenks was watching her, watching the remaining Dyaks, from whom a

spluttering volley came, picking out his quarry with the murderous ease

of a terrier in a rat-pit. Something like a bee in a violent hurry

hummed past his ear, and a rock near his right foot was struck a

tremendous blow by an unseen agency. He liked this. It would be a

battle, not a battue.

The fifth Dyak crumpled into the distortion of death, and then their

leader took deliberate aim at the kneeling marksman who threatened to

wipe him and his band out of existence. But his deliberation, though

skilful, was too profound. The sailor fired first, and was

professionally astonished to see the gaudily attired individual tossed

violently backward for many yards, finally pitching headlong to the

earth. Had he been charged by a bull in full career he could not have

been more utterly discomfited. The incident was sensational but

inexplicable.

Yet another member of the band was prostrated ere the two as yet

unscathed thought fit to beat a retreat. This they now did with

celerity, but they dragged their chief with them. It was no part of

Jenks's programme to allow them to escape. He aimed again at the man

nearest the trees. There was a sharp click and nothing more. The

cartridge was a mis-fire. He hastily sought to eject it, and the rifle

jammed. These little accidents will happen, even in a good weapon like

the Lee-Metford.

Springing to his feet with a yell he ran forward. The flying men caught

a glimpse of him and accelerated their movements. Just as he reached

Iris they vanished among the trees.

Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he picked up the girl in his

arms. She was conscious, but breathless.

"You are not hurt?" he gasped, his eyes blazing into her face with an

intensity that she afterwards remembered as appalling.

"No," she whispered.

"Listen," he continued in labored jerks. "Try and obey me--exactly. I

will carry you--to the cave. Stop there. Shoot any one you see--till I

come."

She heard him wonderingly. Was he going to leave her, now that he had

her safely clasped to his breast? Impossible! Ah, she understood. Those

men must have landed in a boat. He intended to attack them again. He

was going to fight them single-handed, and she would not know what

happened to him until it was all over. Gradually her vitality returned.

She almost smiled at the fantastic conceit that she would desert

him.

Jenks placed her on her feet at the entrance to the cave.

"You understand," he cried, and without waiting for an answer, ran to

the house for another rifle. This time, to her amazement, he darted

back through Prospect Park towards the south beach. The sailor knew

that the Dyaks had landed at the sandy bay Iris had christened

Smugglers' Cove. They were acquainted with the passage through the reef

and came from the distant islands. Now they would endeavor to escape by

the same channel. They must be prevented at all costs.

He was right. As they came out into the open he saw three men, not two,

pushing off a large sampan. One of them, mirabile dictu, was the

chief. Then Jenks understood that his bullet had hit the lock of the

Dyak's uplifted weapon, with the result already described. By a miracle

he had escaped.

He coolly prepared to slay the three of them with the same calm purpose

that distinguished the opening phase of this singularly one-sided

conflict. The distance was much greater, perhaps 800 yards from the

point where the boat came into view. He knelt and fired. He judged that

the missile struck the craft between the trio.

"I didn't allow for the sun on the side of the foresight," he said. "Or

perhaps I am a bit shaky after the run. In any event they can't go

far."

A hurrying step on the coral behind him caught his ear. Instantly he

sprang up and faced about--to see Iris.

"They are escaping," she said.

"No fear of that," he replied, turning away from her.

"Where are the others?"

"Dead!"

"Do you mean that you killed nearly all those men?"

"Six of them. There were nine in all."

He knelt again, lifting the rifle. Iris threw herself on her knees by

his side. There was something awful to her in this chill and

business-like declaration of a fixed purpose.

"Mr. Jenks," she said, clasping her hands in an agony of entreaty, "do

not kill more men for my sake!"

"For my own sake, then," he growled, annoyed at the interruption, as

the sampan was afloat.

"Then I ask you for God's sake not to take another life. What you have

already done was unavoidable, perhaps right. This is murder!"

He lowered his weapon and looked at her.

"If those men get away they will bring back a host to avenge their

comrades--and secure you," he added.

"It may be the will of Providence for such a thing to happen. Yet I

implore you to spare them."

He placed the rifle on the sand and raised her tenderly, for she had

yielded to a paroxysm of tears. Not another word did either of them

speak in that hour. The large triangular sail of the sampan was now

bellying out in the south wind. A figure stood up in the stern of the

boat and shook a menacing arm at the couple on the beach.

It was the Malay chief, cursing them with the rude eloquence of his

barbarous tongue. And Jenks well knew what he was saying.