All were intent on the sensational prize they had secured, a young and beautiful white woman so contentedly roaming about the shores of this Fetish island.

With the slow speed advised by the Roman philosopher, the backsight and foresight of the Lee-Metford came into line with the breast of the coarse brute clutching the girl's face.
Then something bit him above the heart and simultaneously tore half of his back into fragments.

He fell, with a queer sob, and the others turned to face this unexpected danger.
Iris, knowing only that she was free from that hateful grasp, wrenched herself free from the chief's hold, and ran with all her might along the beach, to Jenks and safety.
Again, and yet again, the rifle gave its short, sharp snarl, and two more Dyaks collapsed on the sand.

Six were left, their leader being still unconsciously preserved from death by the figure of the flying girl.
A fourth Dyak dropped.
The survivors, cruel savages but not cowards, unslung their guns.

The sailor, white-faced, grim, with an unpleasant gleam in his deep-set eyes and a lower jaw protruding, noticed their preparations.
"To the left!" he shouted.