Then came a long reverberating crash, and another, and yet another and a long, terrible cry, and above it a shrill whistle. The men on the beach swung round, breaking into a torrent of bewildered furious speech. On the northern headland came a flicker of light that spread upwards and soared in a sheet of flame; and simultaneously Sir John fired at the man nearest him and saw him pitch into the water on his face. The second man rushed at him as he rose from behind the rock, and he fired again, and missed; and the German Was upon him, towering over the slight, misshapen form, and firing as he came. O’Neill felt a sharp agony in his side. The two revolvers rang out together, and the German staggered and fell bodily upon him, crushing him to the sand, while his revolver flew from his hand, splashing into a pool in a rock. The Irishman twisted himself from under the inert weight, and struggled to his feet. A German was rushing towards the boat, threading his way among the rocks, his face desperate in its bewilderment and rage. The sight gave strength to John O’Neill anew; he ran to the boat, staggering as he ran, and pulling at his hatchet. There were dark stains on it as he grasped it. The German saw his intention and shouted furiously, and shots began to whistle past O’Neill. There was no time to look: he flung himself into the boat, hacking wildly at the bottom, smiling as it split under his blows and he felt the cold inrush of the water round his feet. The German was upon him: just once he glanced aside from his work and saw the cruel face and the levelled revolver very close, somewhere it seemed that Jim and Wally were shouting. He smiled again, turning for a final blow at the boat. Then sea and rock and sky seemed to burst round him, with a deafening roar, in a blaze of white light that turned the grey dawn into a path of glory. He woke from a dreamless sleep. They were all about him: kind faces that loved him, that bent over him speaking gently. Some one had propped his head, and had spread coats over him: he was glad of it, for he was very cold. The wavering faces steadied as his vision grew clearer, and he saw them all: David Linton and the boys, and Norah kneeling by him, her eyes full of tears. That troubled him, and he groped for her hand, and held it. “You mustn’t cry,” he whispered. Some one raised his head a little, putting a flask to his lips. He drank eagerly. Then he saw another face he knew. “Hallo, Aylwin!” he said. “Did you get her?” The sailor nodded. “Don’t talk, old man.” O’Neill laughed outright. The brandy had brought life back to him. “I’m perfectly well,” he said. “Tell me, Jim—quick!” “We got them quite easily,” Jim said, his voice shaking. “The first rock blocked the entrance, and they’re there yet. We sent down all the rocks, and one fell on one of the two guards they left; the other managed to wing Wally before he ran.” O’Neill started. “Is he hurt?”