He ran across the flat, heading for the lagoon and hoping he might find a belt of firm sand that would enable him to wade across, but there was none, and by and by he came to the main channel. It was wider and he saw clumps of weed and flakes of foam drift past. The tide was rising and would presently cover the flat. He went back as near as he could get to the jungle, and sitting down with the gun across his knees, took off his shoes. He had sometimes gone wild-fowling on the English coast and knew one can pull one's naked foot out of mud where one's boot would stick. The gun might be an embarrassment, but he meant to keep it to the last, because the fellow who had cut the bridge might be lurking about. Treading very cautiously, Marston tried the bank again, but began to sink and had some trouble to regain the flat. It was obvious that he could not cross, and he doubted if he would be much better off if he reached the mangroves some distance from the path. The tide flowed back among them, their trunks were slender, and they were haunted by poisonous insects and the horrible crabs. If the crabs attacked him when the tide rose and he was forced to cling to the trees, he could not beat them off. All the same, he could not swim to the schooner. For a time he wandered up and down the flat. Although he saw no way of escape, he could not keep still. In the end, he must swim, but he meant to wait until the tide drove him off the flat. There was not much use in swimming when one could not find a spot to land. The rising water presently forced him back to the small channel, where he stopped. The moon had got bright and although, for the most part, the mangroves on the other side rose like a dark wall, the silver beams touched their branches here and there. Marston searched them keenly, because he had a strange feeling that somebody was about. Perhaps the fellow who had cut the bridge had stopped to watch him drown. He thought he heard a soft rustle, leaves moved, and throwing the gun to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger. The barrel jerked, the sharp report rolled across the woods, and leaves and twigs came down; but that was all, and Marston, swinging the gun, pulled the other trigger. Then as the echoes died away he thought he heard a distant shout and a regular throbbing noise. He paused as he pushed in fresh cartridges, and listened hard. The noise was like the splash of oars and got louder. It was the splash of oars, and a shout came across the water again. Marston fired another shot and then waited, trembling with the reaction. Wyndham was coming for him on board the gig and the crew were pulling hard. They would reach him before the tide covered the flat. When the sand was all but covered, the boat grounded close by and Marston got on board. Wyndham gave him a nod and Marston noted that he was hot and breathless. A heavy oar he had thrown down lay in the sculling notch.