aledictions upon themselves and
screaming praises to the sinister thing of death that glowered upon them
from its spaceless lair.

The crash of the long-unused six-pounder at the chateau, followed almost
immediately by a great roar from one of the cruiser's guns, brought the
panic to a crisis.

The islanders scattered like chaff before the wind, looking wild-eyed
over their shoulders in dread of the pursuing cannon-ball, dodging in
and out among the houses and off into the foothills.

Rasula, undaunted but crazed with disappointment, stuck to his colours
on the deserted dock. He cursed and raved and begged. In time, two or
three of the more canny, realising that safety lay in an early peace
offering, ventured out beside him. Others followed their example and
still others slunk trembling to the fore, their voices ready to protest
innocence and friendship and loyalty.

They had heard of the merciless American gunner and they knew, in their
souls, that he could shoot the island into atoms before nightfall.

The native lawyer harangued them and cursed them and at last brought
them to understand, in a feeble way, that no harm could come to them if
they faced the situation boldly. The Americans would not land on British
soil; it would precipitate war with England. They would not dare to
attempt a bombardment: Chase was a liar, a mountebank, a dog! After
shouting himself hoarse in his frenzy of despair, he finally succeeded
in forcing the men to get up steam in the company's tug. All this time,
the officers of the American warship were dividing their attention
between land and sea. Another vessel was coming up out of the misty
horizon. The men on board knew it to be a British man-of-war! At last
steam was up in the tug. A hundred or more of the islanders had ventured
from their hiding places and were again huddled upon the dock.

Suddenly the throng separated as if by magic, opening a narrow path down
which three white men approached the startled Rasula. A hundred eager
hands were extended, a hundred voices cried out for mercy, a hundred
Mohammedans beat their heads in abject submission.

Hollingsworth Chase, Lord Deppingham and a familiar figure in an
ill-fitting red jacket and forage cap strode firmly, defiantly between
the rows of humble Japatites. Close behind them came a tall, resolute
grenadier of the Rapp-Thorberg army.

"Make way there, make way!" Mr. Bowles was crying, brandishing the
antique broadsword that