“So are we,” retorted the Major. “But we’re also the creatures of fate, and our condition here forces us to wage warfare upon any who intrude into our privacy.” “We put in here for repairs, an’ it was natural we should want to explore the island,” returned my uncle, doggedly. The Major appeared lost in thought. For several minutes he sat staring at the ground with a great frown wrinkling his brow. For our part, we watched him curiously, wondering the while what would be the outcome of the queer condition in which we found ourselves. Finally the man spoke: “Under the circumstances,” said he, “there are but two courses open to us. One is to murder every man of you, and bury you underneath the sands. I imagine you would be safe there, and not a soul on earth would ever know what had become of you.” I shuddered. The soft tones could not disguise the horror of the words. “The alternative,” continued the Major, “is to swear you to secrecy, to induce you to work for us for fair wages, and finally to sail back with you in your ship to San Francisco, where we may part good friends.” The contrast between these propositions was so great that we stared at the man in amazement. “If we are to take our choice,” said Uncle Naboth, “it won’t be the grave under the sands, you may be sure.” “The choice does not lie with you, but with my men,” returned the Major, coolly. “For my part, I am neither bloodthirsty nor inclined to become a murderer; so I shall use my influence in your behalf.” With this he slowly rose to his feet and stalked from the clearing, leaving us to reflections that were not entirely comfortable. The hours passed drearily enough. Toward evening some of the men brought us a few moldy ship’s biscuits and a bucket of sweet drinking water, and after partaking of this we were left to ourselves until the next daybreak. As it grew dusk Nux suddenly rose from his seat, and we saw that he was free. In some way he had managed to slip his bonds, and he passed quickly from one to another of us until we were all released from the dreadful ropes that had been chafing us. Then a council of war was held. Our captors numbered about thirty, and all were fully armed. To attempt to oppose them openly would be madness; but if we could manage to slip away and regain our boats we should be able to reach our ship and so escape. Bryonia agreed to spy out our surroundings and see where the boats lay, so he fell upon all fours and silently crept from the clearing. We awaited his return with impatience, but he was not gone long. He re-entered the clearing walking upright and indifferent to crackling twigs, and then we knew our case was hopeless. “Dere’s men sleepin’ in de boats, an’ men on watch,” said he; “an’ dey all has swords an’ pistols. Can’t get away anyhow, Mars Perkins.” “How about the woods?” asked my uncle. “Can’t we escape through them?”