no new foes appeared, a light seemed to break upon his understanding.
He smiled—a slow, crafty smile. He was an old soldier and he saw through Lachlan's stratagem; perhaps he himself at one time or another had employed the same trick. Plainly this swordsman who had leaped from the cabin doorway was alone; plainly, too, he was not happy just now, otherwise he would not pretend to have allies when he had none. The Spaniard's quick mind darted here and there, nimble as his nimble sword. He could not know all that had happened; but he knew now that it was not he who was in a trap.
He shifted suddenly from defence to offence. For six paces he gained ground before a prick in the shoulder halted him. After a minute of quick hot work, he realized that his skill was overmatched, and again he fell back slowly, on the defensive once more.
Suddenly Lachlan sprang backward, jumped across a hatchway, darted around the cabin and raced towards the brig's stern. From the direction of the forecastle the three men of Falcon's crew were coming armed with cutlasses, and behind them ran three other men who had clambered up to the brig's deck from the Spaniard's canoe.
In Lachlan's canoe, also, under the brig's stern, the sound of the swords had been heard. Almayne and the two Muskogees had gained the deck, and now they came running to meet Lachlan. He waved them back and the four dashed aft together.
