The sailor turned to dive into the cave and secure the rifle from Mir Jan, when his shin caught the heavy crowbar resting against the rock.  The pain of the blow lent emphasis to the swing with which the implement descended upon some portion of a Dyak anatomy.  Jenks never knew where he hit the second assailant, but the place cracked like an eggshell.

He had not time to recover the bar for another blow, so he gave the point in the gullet of a gentleman who was about to make a vicious sweep at him with a parang.  The downfall of this worthy caused his immediate successor to stumble, and Jenks saw his opportunity.  With the agility of a cat he jumped up the ladder.  Once started, he had to go on.  He afterwards confessed to an unpleasant sensation of pins and needles along his back during that brief acrobatic display; but he reached the ledge without further injury, save an agonizing twinge when the unprotected quick of his damaged finger was smartly rapped against the rock.

These things happened with the speed of thought.  Within forty seconds of Iris’s shrill cry the sailor was breast high with the ledge and calling to her—­

“All right, old girl.  Keep it up!”

The cheerful confidence of his words had a wonderful effect on her.  Iris, like every good woman, had the maternal instinct strong within her—­the instinct that inspires alike the mild-eyed Sister of Charity and the tigress fighting for her cubs.  When Jenks was down below there, in imminent danger of being cut to pieces, the gentle, lovable girl, who would not willingly hurt the humblest of God’s creatures, became terrible, majestic in her frenzied purpose.  Robert must be saved.  If a Maxim were planted on the rock she would unhesitatingly have turned the lever and sprayed the Dyaks with bullets.

But here he was close to her, unhurt and calmly jubilant, as was his way when a stiff fight went well.  He was by her side now, firing and aiming too, for the Dyaks broke cover recklessly in running for shelter, and one may do fair work by moonlight, as many a hunter of wild duck can testify by the rheumatism in his bones.

She had strength enough left to place the rifle out of harm’s way before she broke down and sobbed, not tearfully, but in a paroxysm of reaction.  Soon all was quiet beneath, save for the labored efforts of some wounded men to get far away from that accursed rock.  Jenks was able to turn to Iris.  He endeavored to allay her agitation, and succeeded somewhat, for tears came, and she clung to him.  It was useless to reproach him.  The whole incident was unforeseen:  she was herself a party to it.  But what an escape!

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to a seat where the tarpaulin rested on a broken water-cask.

“You have been a very good little girl and have earned your supper,” he said.

“Oh, how can you talk so callously after such an awful experience?” she expostulated brokenly.