Crusoe lay in a crumpled heap. Man-Friday stood astride him, musket smoking. Blood from his axe made small carnations on the sand. Crusoe’s eyes opened, locked on Friday, his fingers scrabbled for a weapon. From beneath Friday’s breastbone an arrow protruded, blood trailing from it like a ribbon.
As Friday collapsed, Crusoe spotted figures along the beach. Three men struggled to launch their war-canoe in raging surf. Crusoe shouldered his flintlock, took aim. The camera panned in on his fury. “Cut” the Director yelled and suddenly the deserted beach was alive with people.
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