That the Master had emotions, after all, was evident.
Obvious, too, was the fact these emotions were now fully aroused.
"What a devil of a place! No way to get at those dog-sons, and they can lie there and wait for _Nissr_ to break up!" "Yes, my Captain, or else starve us where we lie!" the lieutenant put in.

"Or wait for thirst and fever to do the work.

Then--rich plunder for the sons of theft!" "Ah, Leclair, but we're not going to stay here, for any such contingency!" exclaimed the chief, and turned toward the door.

"Come, _en avant_! Forward, Leclair!" "My Captain! You cannot charge an entrenched enemy like that, by swimming a heavy surf, with nothing but revolvers in hand!" "Can't, eh?
Why not ?" "The rules of war--" "To Hell with the rules of war!" shouted the Master, for the first time in years breaking into profanity.

"Are you with me, or are you--" "Sir, do not say that word!" cried the Frenchman, reddening ominously.
"Not even from you can I accept it!" The Master laughed again, and strode out into the main corridor, with Leclair close behind him.
"Men!" he called, his voice blaring a trumpet-call to action.
"Volunteers for a shore-party to clean out that kennel of dogs!" None held back.