“Wot we done to dem Chinks was sure a plenty, kiddo,” he remarked to Miss Harding, and then he came to his feet, seemingly as strong as ever, shaking himself like a great bull.  “But I guess it’s lucky youse butted in when you did, old pot,” he added, turning toward Theriere; “dey jest about had me down fer de long count.”

Barbara Harding was looking at the man in wide-eyed amazement.  A moment before she had been expecting him, momentarily, to breathe his last—­now he was standing before her talking as unconcernedly as though he had not received a scratch—­he seemed totally unaware of his wounds.  At least he was entirely indifferent to them.

“You’re pretty badly hurt, old man,” said Theriere.  “Do you feel able to make the attempt to get to the jungle?  The Japs will be back in a moment.”

“Sure!” cried Billy Byrne.  “Come ahead,” and he sprang for the window.  “Pass de kid up to me.  Quick!  Dey’re comin’ from in back.”

Theriere lifted Barbara Harding to the mucker who drew her through the opening.  Then Billy extended a hand to the Frenchman, and a moment later the three stood together outside the hut.

A dozen samurai were running toward them from around the end of the “Palace.”  The jungle lay a hundred yards across the clearing.  There was no time to be lost.

“You go first with Miss Harding,” cried Theriere.  “I’ll cover our retreat with my revolver, following close behind you.”

The mucker caught the girl in his arms, throwing her across his shoulder.  The blood from his wounds smeared her hands and clothing.

“Hang tight, kiddo,” he cried, and started at a brisk trot toward the forest.

Theriere kept close behind the two, reserving his fire until it could be effectively delivered.  With savage yells the samurai leaped after their escaping quarry.  The natives all carried the long, sharp spears of the aboriginal head-hunters.  Their swords swung in their harness, and their ancient armor clanked as they ran.

It was a strange, weird picture that the oddly contrasted party presented as they raced across the clearing of this forgotten isle toward a jungle as primitive as when “the evening and the morning were the third day.”  An American girl of the highest social caste borne in the arms of that most vicious of all social pariahs—­the criminal mucker of the slums of a great city—­and defending them with drawn revolver, a French count and soldier of fortune, while in their wake streamed a yelling pack of half-caste demons clothed in the habiliments of sixteenth century Japan, and wielding the barbarous spears of the savage head-hunting aborigines whose fierce blood coursed in their veins with that of the descendants of Taka-mi-musu-bi-no-kami.

Three-quarters of the distance had been covered in safety before the samurai came within safe spear range of the trio.  Theriere, seeing the danger to the girl, dropped back a few paces hoping to hold the brown warriors from her.  The foremost of the pursuers raised his weapon aloft, carrying his spear hand back of his shoulder for the throw.  Theriere’s revolver spoke, and the man pitched forward, rolling over and over before he came to rest.