greedy hold of Blackbeard's
gold. They were like children listening to a fairy tale. The fat little
papooses crawled timidly near to inspect the mysterious strangers and
scrambled away squealing with delicious terror.

The hours passed and the verdict was delayed. Two young braves stole
away into the pine woodland on some errand, at the behest of the chief.
It was after noon when they returned. With them came a dozen Yemassee
warriors from another hunting camp, strong, quick-footed men in light
marching order who were armed with long bows and knives. The chief spoke
a few words and mustered his force. All told he had more than thirty
picked followers. The English lads were told to move with them.

In single file the band flitted silently along the ridge and plunged
into the swamp. The prisoners were closely guarded. At the slightest
sign of treachery the long knives would slither between their ribs. This
they well knew and their devout prayer was that their friends on the
knoll might not commit some rash act of hostility and so ruin the
enterprise. With heart-quaking trepidation they perceived at some
distance the rude barricade of logs and the yellow streaks of earth
hastily thrown up.

The cautious Yemassees concealed themselves as though the swamp had
swallowed them up. The chief made certain signs, and the lads understood
his meaning. Jack Cockrell ripped a sleeve from his shirt and tied it to
a stick as a flag of truce. Joe Hawkridge advanced with them, the
stalwart chief between them, his empty hands extended in token of peace.
The ambushed Yemassees, lying in the tall grass, were ready to let fly
with musket balls and flights of arrows or to storm the knoll.

A sailor on sentry duty gave the alarm and the lads saw a row of heads
bob above the logs, and the gleam of weapons. Then Captain Jonathan
Wellsby moved out into the open and was joined by Mr. Peter Forbes.
They stood gazing at the singular spectacle, the bedraggled runaways who
had vanished without trace, the odd flag of truce, the brawny, dignified
savage making signs of friendship. The men in the stockade were ordered
to lay down their arms. They came running out to cheer and wave their
hats.

Mr. Peter Forbes was torn betwixt affection and the desire to scold his
flighty nephew. They met half-way down the slope and Jack hastened to
explain:

"Before you clap us in irons as deserters, Uncle Peter, grant a parley,
if you please. Our lives hang by a