The current and the wind swung the ship still closer to the shore, and now—­even above the whistle of the gale in the cordage—­the crew heard the wild whoop of the wreckers.  These men on the beach were the sons of pirates.  But they were now cowards compared with their fathers.  For they no longer lived by the wild sea-rover’s fight that had made their fathers’ blood leap with the joy of the battle.  They lived by a crueller craft.  Waiting till some such vessel as this was swept ashore, they would swoop down on it, harry and slay the men, carry the women and children off for slaves, break up the ship and take the wood and stores for fire and food.  They were beach-combers.

An extra swing of the tide, a great wave—­and with a thud the ship was aground, stuck fast on the yielding sands.  With a wild yell, and with their tawny manes streaming in the wind, the wreckers rushed down the beach brandishing their spears.

Wilfrid, striding to the side of the ship, raised his hand to show that he wished to speak to the chief.  But the island men rushed on like an avalanche and started to storm the ship.  Snatching up arms, poles, rope-ends—­whatever they could find—­the men on board beat down upon the heads of the savages as they climbed up the ship’s slippery side.  One man after another sank wounded on the deck.  The fight grew more obstinate, but at last the men of the beach drew back up the sands, baffled.

The Men of the Shingle Beach might have given up the battle had not a fierce priest of their god of war leapt on to a mound of sand, and, lifting his naked arms to the skies, called on the god to destroy the men in the ship.

The savages were seized with a new frenzy and swept down the beach again.  Wilfrid had gathered his closest friends round him and was quietly kneeling on the deck praying to his God for deliverance from the enemy.  The fight became desperate.  Again the savages were driven back up the beach.

Once more they rallied and came swooping down on the ship.  But a pebble from the sling of a man on the ship struck the savage priest on the forehead; he tottered and fell on the sand.  This infuriated the savages, yet it took the heart out of these men who had trusted in their god of war.

Meanwhile the tide had been creeping up; it swung in still further and lifted the ship from the sand; the wind veered, the sails strained.  Slowly, but with gathering speed, the ship stood out to sea followed by howls of rage from the men on the beach.

* * * * *

Some years passed by, yet Wilfrid in all his travels had never forgotten the Men of the Beach.  And, strangely enough, he wanted to go back to them.

At last the time came when he could do so.  This time he did not visit them by sea.  After he had preached among the people in a distant part of the same great island, Wilfrid with four faithful companions—­Eappa, Padda, Burghelm and Oiddi—­walked down to the south coast of the island.