“Mogador Jack,” he said, “'e don't like people follerin' 'im.” With that he left me alone in the burrow, wondering, now that it was over, why he had not killed me. He left me quite stunned; his sudden coming into my life had been so strange. It was unreal, like a dream, to have been in an ancient Briton's burial-chamber with a mad old pirate who had committed murder. But now that he had gone, I was eager to go, too, if it could be managed. I would not stay there till the brute came back, in spite of that flint club. After waiting some little time, during which, I felt sure, he was waiting for me at the door of the burrow, I took out my pistol. I examined the charge to see that all was well; then very cautiously, I began to crawl up the passage, with my pistol in my hand. I waited for some minutes near the door, trying to convince myself by the lie of the shadows outside that he was crouched there, ready for me. But it seemed safe. I could see no shadow at all except the tremulous fern-shadows. At last I took off my coat as a blind. I flung it through the doorway, with some force, to see if it would draw him from his hiding. Nothing happened. The ruffian did not pounce upon it. I took a few long breaths to hearten me; it was now or never. I shut my eyes, praying that the first two blows might miss my head, so that I should have time to fire. Then, on my back, with my pistol raised over my head, I forced myself out with every muscle in my body. I leaped to my feet on the instant, quickly glancing round for the madman, swinging my pistol about with my finger hard on the trigger. He was not there, after all. I might have spared myself the trouble. I was alone there in the fern, within earshot of a murmur of voices, talking excitedly. I was not going to spy into any more secrets. I was going to get out of that camp cost what it might. I made one rush through the fern in the direction of the rampart, shoving the stalks aside, as a bull knocks through jungle in Campeachy. In thirty steps I was clear of the fern, charging slap into a group of people who were giving brandy to the sentry, whom I had passed but a little while before. He was bleeding from a broken wound on his pretty hard Saxon skull. He was not badly hurt, for he was swearing lustily; but he had been stunned just long enough for my pirate man to strip him. He was dressed now in a pair of leather gaiters, all the rest of his things had been taken, the pistol with them, I saw all this at a glance, as I charged in among them. I took it all in, guessing in one swift gleam of comprehension, exactly what had happened there, as my pirate made his rush for freedom. There was no time to ask if my guess were right or not.