pronounces a word, on hearing which Henry Chester
gives a start, then earnestly listens for its repetition. It is--as he
first thought--"_Eleparu_."

"Did you hear that?" asks the young Englishman in eager haste.

"Hear what?" demands Ned Gancy, to whom the question is addressed.

"That word `_Eleparu_.' The old fellow has spoken it twice!" says
Henry.

"Well, and if he has?" queries Ned.

"You remember our affair at Portsmouth with those three queer creatures
and the wharf-rats?"

"Of course I do. Why do you ask?"

"One of them, the man, was named Eleparu," answers Chester; adding, "The
girl called him so, and the boy too."

"I didn't hear that name."

"No?" says Henry; "then it must have been before you came up."

"Yes," answers young Gancy, "for the officer who took them away called
the man York, the boy Jemmy, and the girl Fuegia."

"That's so. But how did she ever come to be named _Fuegia_?"

"That does seem odd; just now--"

"Hark! Hear that? the old fellow has just said `Ocushlu!' That's the
name the other two gave the girl. What can it mean?"

But now the youths' hurried dialogue is brought to an abrupt end.
Annaqua has been out-voted, his authority set at nought, and the council
broken up. The triumphant majority is advancing toward the camp, with
an air of fierce resolve; women as well as men armed with clubs,
flint-bladed daggers, and stones clutched in their closed fists. In
vain is it now for Seagriff to call out "Brothers! Sisters!" The
savages can no longer be cajoled by words of flattery or friendship; and
he knows it. So do the others, all of whom are now standing on the
defensive. Even Mrs Gancy and Leoline have armed themselves, and come
out of the tent, determined to take part in the life-and-death conflict
that seems inevitable. The sailor's wife and daughter both have braved
danger ere now, and, though never one like this, they will meet it
undaunted.

It is at the ultimate moment that they make appearance, and seeing them
for the first time, the savage assailants halt, hesitatingly--not
through fear, but rather with bewilderment at the unexpected apparition.
It moves them not to pity, however, nor begets within them one throb of
merciful feeling. Instead, the Fuegian hags but seem more embittered at
seeing persons of their own sex so superior to them, and, recovering
from their surprise, they clamorously urge the commencement of the
attack.

Never have the cast