Beneath the brilliant tropic moon that lighted the scene
almost as brilliantly as might the sun himself the battle waged,
and though the odds were painfully uneven the white men
moved steadily, though slowly, toward the jungle. It was
evident that the natives feared the giant white who led the
three. Anthony Harding, familiar with Japanese, could translate
sufficient of their jargon to be sure of that, had not the
respectful distance most of them kept from Byrne been ample
proof.
Out of the village street they came at last into the clearing.
The warriors danced about them, yelling threats and taunts
the while they made occasional dashes to close quarters that
they might deliver a swift sword cut and retreat again before
the great white devil could get them with the sword that had
been Oda Yorimoto's, or the strange fire stick that spoke in
such a terrifying voice.
Fifty feet from the jungle Mallory went down with a spear
through the calf of his leg. Byrne saw him fall, and dropping
back lifted the man to his feet, supporting him with one arm
as the two backed slowly in front of the onpressing natives.
The spears were flying thick and fast now, for the samurai
all were upon the same side of the enemy and there was no
danger of injuring one of their own number with their flying
weapons as there had been when the host entirely surrounded
the three men, and when the whites at last entered the tall
grasses of the jungle a perfect shower of spears followed them.
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