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.