They were coming!
Four boat-loads! That ought to be enough to make full sure of him. He
wondered why they had not come sooner, for the tide was on the rise, and
the landing-places did not look tempting.
His gun was under his hand, and his powder-flask and his little bag of
shot. He had no more preparations to make, and he had no wish to fight.
No wish? The thought of it was hateful to him, and yet it was not in
human nature to give in without a struggle.
But it should be all their doing. All he wanted was to be left in peace.
Every man has the right to defend his own life.
But then, again--there could be only one end to it, he knew. So why
fight?
They were coming to make an end of him. What good was it to make an end
of any of them?
Even if he should succeed in keeping them off this time, the end would
come all the same, only it would be longer of coming. Why prolong it?
The boats came bounding on like hounds at sight of the quarry. They were
well filled, four or five men in each boat, besides the oarsmen. Enough,
surely, to make an end of one lone man.
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