Would the mainlanders rush into the trap?  Had some keen eye seen those shadowy forms dropping through the mist?  Each instant the ghostly pall that shut out vision seaward seemed drifting away.  Nathaniel’s staring eyes saw a vague shape appear in it, an indistinct dirt-gray blotch, and he knew that it was a boat.  Another followed, and then another; he heard the sound of oars, the grinding of keels upon the sand, and where the Mormons had been a few moments before the beach was now alive with mainlanders.  In the growing light he could make out the king’s men below him, inanimate spots in the middle of the narrow plain.  Helpless he stood clutching his pistol, the horror in him growing with each breath.  Could he give no warning?  Could he do nothing—­nothing—­At least he could join in the fight!  He ran down the hill, swinging to the left of the Mormons.  Half way, and he stopped as a thundering cheer swept up from the shore.  The mainlanders had started toward the hill!  Without rank, without order—­shouting their triumph as they came they were rushing blindly into the arms of the ambush!  A shriek of warning left Nathaniel’s lips.  It was drowned in a crash of rifle fire.  Volley after volley burst from that shadowy stretch of plain.  Before the furious fire the van of the mainlanders crumpled into ruin.  Like chaff before a wind those behind were swept back.  Apparently they were flying without waiting to fire a shot!  Nathaniel dashed down into the plain.  Ahead of him the Mormons were charging in a solid line, and in another moment the shore had become a mass of fighting men.  Far to the left he saw a group of the mainlanders running along the beach toward the conflict.  If he could only intercept them—­and bring them into the rear!  Like the wind he sped to cut them off, shouting and firing his pistol.

He won by a hundred yards and stood panting as they came toward him.  Dawn had dispelled the mist-gloom and as the mainlanders drew nearer he discerned in their lead a figure that brought a cry of joy from his lips.

“Neil!” he shouted.  “Neil—­”

He turned as Marion’s brother darted to his side.

“This way—­from behind!”

The two led the way, side by side, followed by a dozen men.  A glance told Nathaniel that nothing much less than a miracle could turn the tide of battle.  Half of the mainlanders were fighting in the water.  Others were struggling desperately to get away in the boats.  Foot by foot the Mormons were crushing them back, their battle cries now turned into demoniac yells of victory.  Into the rear of the struggling mass, firing as they ran, charged the handful of men behind Captain Plum and Neil.  For a little space the king’s men gave way before them and with wild cheers the powerful fishermen from the coast fought their way toward their comrades.  Many of them were armed with long knives; some had pistols; others used their empty rifles as clubs.  A dozen more men and they would have split like a wedge through