"Well?" Duncan demanded in a low voice, but sharply.
"I am sorry you are making such a mess of everything," was Duncan's quiet reply.
Duncan coolly pulled at his cigar and glanced aft at the rising cloud of squall.
"Are you done?" Duncan asked, his voice low, and tense.
"Save yourself the trouble of further lying," Duncan went on coldly.
There was a pause, during which Duncan went on studying the rising squall, while Captain Dettmar's face worked terribly.
In the center of the little island, a few short and stunted pines had found root, forming a thicket, into which Hawkeye darted with the swiftness of a deer, followed by the active Duncan. Here they secured themselves, as well as circumstances would permit, among the shrubs and fragments of stone that were scattered about the place.
A long and anxious watch succeeded, but without any further evidences of a renewed attack; and Duncan began to hope that their fire had proved more fatal than was supposed, and that their enemies had been effectually repulsed.
The first generous impulse of Duncan was to rush to the rescue of the hapless wretch; but he felt himself bound to the spot by the iron grasp of the immovable scout.
Duncan caught glimpses of heads above the scattered drift-wood, as this signal rose on the air, but they disappeared again as suddenly as they had glanced upon his sight.
At the same moment, Duncan found himself engaged with the other, in a similar contest of hand to hand.
Every successive struggle brought them nearer to the verge, where Duncan perceived the final and conquering effort must be made.