The Dyaks, though to the manner born, were weary of sun-scorched rocks and salt water.  The boat was coming in response to their signals, and the sight inspired Jenks with fresh hope.  Like a lightning flash came the reflection that if he could keep them away from the well and destroy the sampan now hastening to their assistance, perhaps conveying the bulk of their stores, they would soon tire of slaking their thirst, on the few pitcher-plants growing on the north shore.

“Come quick,” he shouted, adjusting the backsight of a rifle.  “Lie down and aim at the front of that boat, a little short if anything.  It doesn’t matter if the bullets strike the sea first.”

He placed the weapon in readiness for her and commenced operations himself before Iris could reach his side.  Soon both rifles were pitching twenty shots a minute at the sampan.  The result of their long-range practice was not long in doubt.  The Dyaks danced from seat to seat in a state of wild excitement.  One man was hurled overboard.  Then the craft lurched seaward in the strong current, and Jenks told Iris to leave the rest to him.

Before he could empty a second magazine a fortunate bullet ripped a plank out and the sampan filled and went down, amidst a shrill yell of execration from the back of the cliff.  The two Dyaks yet living endeavored to swim ashore, half a mile through shark-invested reefs.  The sailor did not even trouble about them.  After a few frantic struggles each doomed wretch flung up his arms and vanished.  In the clear atmosphere the on-lookers could see black fins cutting the pellucid sea.

This exciting episode dispelled the gathering mists from the girl’s brain.  Her eyes danced and she breathed hard.  Yet something worried her.

“I hope I didn’t hit the man who fell out of the boat,” she said.

“Oh,” came the prompt assurance, “I took deliberate aim at that chap.  He was a most persistent scoundrel.”

Iris was satisfied.  Jenks thought it better to lie than to tell the truth, for the bald facts hardly bore out his assertion.  Judging from the manner of the Dyak’s involuntary plunge he had been hit by a ricochet bullet, whilst the sailor’s efforts were wholly confined to sinking the sampan.  However, let it pass.  Bullet or shark, the end was the same.

They were quieting down—­the thirst fiend was again slowly salting their veins—­when something of a dirty white color fluttered into sight from behind the base of the opposite cliff.  It was rapidly withdrawn, to reappear after an interval.  Now it was held more steadily and a brown arm became visible.  As Jenks did not fire, a turbaned head popped into sight.  It was the Mahommedan.

“No shoot it,” he roared.  “Me English speak it.”

“Don’t you speak Hindustani?” shouted Jenks in Urdu of the Higher Proficiency.

“Han, sahib!"[Footnote:  Yes, sir.] was the joyful response.  “Will your honor permit his servant to come and talk with him?”