The marks on the sand proved that only one sampan had been beached.  Thence he found nothing of special interest until he came upon the chief’s gun, lying close to the trees on the north side.  It was a very ornamental weapon, a muzzle-loader.  The stock was inlaid with gold and ivory, and the piece had evidently been looted from some mandarin’s junk surprised and sacked in a former foray.

The lock was smashed by the impact of the Lee-Metford bullet, but close investigation of the trigger-guard, and the discovery of certain unmistakable evidences on the beach, showed that the Dyak leader had lost two if not three fingers of his right hand.

“So he has something more than his passion to nurse,” mused Jenks.  “That at any rate is fortunate.  He will be in no mood for further enterprise for some time to come.”

He dreaded lest any of the Dyaks should be only badly wounded and likely to live.  It was an actual relief to his nerves to find that the improvised Dum-dums had done their work too well to permit anxiety on that score.  On the principle that a “dead Injun is a good Injun” these Dyaks were good Dyaks.

He gathered the guns, swords and krisses of the slain, with all their uncouth belts and ornaments.  In pursuance of a vaguely defined plan of future action he also divested some of the men of their coarse garments, and collected six queer-looking hats, shaped like inverted basins.  These things he placed in a heap near the pitcher-plants.  Thenceforth, for half an hour, the placid surface of the lagoon was disturbed by the black dorsal fins of many sharks.

To one of the sailor’s temperament there was nothing revolting in the concluding portion of his task.  He had a God-given right to live.  It was his paramount duty, remitted only by death itself, to endeavor to save Iris from the indescribable fate from which no power could rescue her if ever she fell into the hands of these vindictive savages.  Therefore it was war between him and them, war to the bitter end, war with no humane mitigation of its horrors and penalties, the last dread arbitrament of man forced to adopt the methods of the tiger.

His guess at the weather conditions heralded by the change of wind was right.  As the two partook of their evening meal the complaining surf lashed the reef, and the tremulous branches of the taller trees voiced the approach of a gale.  A tropical storm, not a typhoon, but a belated burst of the periodic rains, deluged the island before midnight.  Hours earlier Iris retired, utterly worn by the events of the day.  Needless to say, there was no singing that evening.  The gale chanted a wild melody in mournful chords, and the noise of the watery downpour on the tarpaulin roof of Belle Vue Castle was such as to render conversation impossible, save in wearying shouts.

Luckily, Jenks’s carpentry was effective, though rough.  The building was water-tight, and he had calked every crevice with unraveled rope until Iris’s apartment was free from the tiniest draught.