As well as Jenks could judge, the foremost trio of the yelping horde were impaled on the bayonets of the cheval de frise, learning too late its formidable nature.  The wounded men shrieked in agony, but their cries were drowned in a torrent of amazed shouts from their companions.  Forthwith there was a stampede towards the well, the cliff, the beaches, anywhere to get away from that awesome cavern where ghosts dwelt and men fell maimed at the very threshold.  The sailor, leaning as far over the edge of the rock as the girl’s expostulations would permit, heard a couple of men groaning beneath, whilst a third limped away with frantic and painful haste.

“What is it?” whispered Iris, eager herself to witness the tumult.  “What has happened?”

“They have been routed by a box of matches and a few dried bones,” he answered.

There was no time for further speech.  He was absorbed in estimating the probable number of the Dyaks.  Thus far, he had seen about fifty.  Moreover, he did not wish to acquaint Iris with the actual details of the artifice that had been so potent.  Her allusion to the box of water-sodden Taendstickors gave him the notion of utilizing as an active ally the bleached remains of the poor fellow who had long ago fallen a victim to this identical mob of cut-throats or their associates.  He gathered the principal bones from their resting-place near the well, rubbed them with the ends of the matches after damping the sulphur again, and arranged them with ghastly effect on the pile of rubbish at the further end of the cave, creeping under the cheval de frise for the purpose.

Though not so vivid as he wished, the pale-glimmering headless skeleton in the intense darkness of the interior was appalling enough in all conscience.  Fortunately the fumes of the sulphur fed on the bony substance.  They endured a sufficient time to scare every Dyak who caught a glimpse of the monstrous object crouching in luminous horror within the dismal cavern.

Not even the stirring exhortations of the chief, whose voice was raised in furious speech, could induce his adherents to again approach that affrighting spot.  At last the daring scoundrel himself, still wielding his naked sword, strode right up to the very doorway.  Stricken with sudden stupor, he gazed at the fitful gleams within.  He prodded the cheval de frise with the parang.  Here was something definite and solid.  Then he dragged one of the wounded men out into the moonlight.

Again Jenks experienced an itching desire to send a bullet through the Dyak’s head; again he resisted the impulse.  And so passed that which is vouchsafed by Fate to few men—­a second opportunity.

Another vehement harangue by the chief goaded some venturesome spirits into carrying their wounded comrade out of sight, presumably to the hut.  Inspired by their leader’s fearless example, they even removed the third injured Dyak from the vicinity of the cave, but the celerity of their retreat caused the wretch to bawl in agony.