“We have won the first rubber,” he whispered to Iris.

Above, beneath, beyond, they could see nothing.  The air they breathed was hot and foetid.  It was like being immured in a foul tunnel and almost as dark.  Jenks looked over the parapet.  He thought he could distinguish some vague figures on the sands, so he fired at them.  A volley of answering bullets crashed into the rock on all sides.  The Dyaks had laid their plans well this time.  A firing squad stationed beyond the smoke area, and supplied with all the available guns, commenced and kept up a smart fusillade in the direction of the ledge in order to cover the operations of the scaling party.

Jenks realized that to expose himself was to court a serious wound and achieve no useful purpose.  He fell back out of range, laid down his rifle and grabbed the crowbar.  At brief intervals a deep hollow boom came up from the valley.  At first it puzzled them until the sailor hit upon an explanation.  Mir Jan was busy.

The end of a strong roughly made ladder swung through the smoke and banged against the ledge.  Before Jenks could reach it those hoisting it into position hastily retreated.  They were standing in front of the cave and the Mahommedan made play on them with a Lee-Metford at thirty feet.

Jenks, using his crowbar as a lever, toppled the ladder clean over.  It fell outwards and disconcerted a section of the musketeers.

“Well done,” cried Iris.

The sailor, astounded by her tone, gave her a fleeting glance.  She was very pale now, but not with fear.  Her eyes were slightly contracted, her nostrils quivering, her lips set tight and her chin dimpled.  She had gone back thirty generations in as many seconds.  Thus might one of the daughters of Boadicea have looked whilst guiding her mother’s chariot against the Roman phalanx.  Resting on one knee, with a revolver in each hand, she seemed no puling mate for the gallant man who fought for her.

She caught his look.

“We will beat them yet!” she cried again, and she smiled, not as a woman smiles, but with the joy of a warrior when the fray is toward.

There was no time for further speech.  Three ladders were reared against the rock.  They were so poised and held below that Jenks could not force them backwards.  A fourth appeared, its coarse shafts looming into sight like the horns of some gigantic animal.  The four covered practically the whole front of the ledge save where Mir Jan cleared a little space on the level.

The sailor was standing now, with the crowbar clenched in both hands.  The firing in the valley slackened and died away.  A Dyak face, grinning like a Japanese demon, appeared at the top of the ladder nearest to Iris.

“Don’t fire!” shouted Jenks, and the iron bar crushed downwards.  Two others pitched themselves half on to the ledge.  Now both crowbar and revolver were needed.  Three ladders were thus cumbered somewhat for those beneath, and Jenks sprang towards the fourth and most distant.  Men were crowding it like ants.  Close to his feet lay an empty water-cask.  It was a crude weapon, but effective when well pitched, and the sailor had never made a better shot for a goal in the midst of a hard-fought scrimmage than he made with that tub for the head of the uppermost pirate.