Jane Cable

CHAPTER XXI — IN THE PHILIPPINES

David Cable lost no time in hurrying away from Chicago with his wife and Jane. They were whisked westward in his private car on the second day after the Bansemer exposure. Broken-spirited, Jane acquiesced in all their plans; she seemed as one in a stupor, comprehending, yet unresponsive to the pain that enveloped her.

"I can't see anyone that I know here," she said listlessly. "Oh, the thought of what they are saying!"

They did not tell her that Graydon had enlisted as a private soldier in the United States Army; Jane only knew that she loved him and that the bar sinister existed.

Cable's devotion to her was beautiful. He could not have been more tender had she been his own daughter, instead of his wife's imposition.

Jane was ill in Pasadena for many weeks. Her depressed condition made her recovery doubtful. It was plain to two persons, at least, that she did not care whether she lived or died. The physicians were puzzled, but no explanation was offered by the Cables. It was not until certain Chicago sojourners generously spread the news, that the cause of her breakdown became apparent to the good doctors. Before many days, the girl who sat, wan and distrait, upon the flower-shaded piazza was an object of curiosity to fashionable Pasadena. As soon as she was strong enough to endure the trip, the hunted trio forsook Pasadena and fled northward.

San Francisco afforded relief in privacy. Jane's spirits began to revive. There had not been, nor was there ever to be, any mention of that terrible night and its revelations. What she may have felt and suffered in secret could only be conjectured by those who loved her. Bansemer's name was never uttered. His fate remained unknown to her. The far-away, unhappy look in her eyes proved to them that Graydon was never out of her thoughts.

David Cable was in Chicago when Mrs. Cable received word from her sister, once Kate Coleman, that she soon would reach San Francisco with her husband, bound for the Philippines. Kate was the wife of a West Pointer who had achieved the rank of colonel in the volunteers, by virtue of political necessity. His regiment had been ordered to the islands, and she was accompanying him with their daughter, a girl of sixteen.

Colonel Harbin had seen pleasant service at the Eastern posts where his wife had attained a certain kind of social distinction in the army fast set. She was not especially enamoured of the prospect ahead of her in the Philippines; but the new colonel was a strict disciplinarian on and off the field. He expected to be a brigadier-general if fortune and favouritism supported him long enough. Mrs. Harbin could never be anything more than a private in the ranks, so far as his estimation of distinction was concerned. His daughter Ethel had, by means of no uncertain favouritism, advanced a few points ahead of her mother, and might have ranked as sergeant in the family corps.

Mrs. Harbin played cards, drank highballs, flirted with the younger officers, got talked about with pleasing emphasis, and was as happy as any subordinate could be. They had not even thought of such a thing as divorce, and the whole army wondered and expressed disgust. The army's appetite for scandal is surpassed only by its bravery in war. It is even hinted that the latter is welcomed as a loophole for the former. War brings peace.

The arrival of the Harbins and a staff of gay young cadets fresh from the banks of the Hudson put new life into the recluses. The regiment was to remain at the Presidio for several weeks before sailing. One of the lieutenants was a Chicago boy and an acquaintance of Graydon Bansmer. It was from him that Jane learned that her sweetheart was a soldier in the service, doubtless now in Luzon.

A week before the sailing of Colonel Harbin's transport Jane suddenly announced that she had but one desire on earth, and that was to go to Manila with her aunt. She did not present her plea with the usual claim that she wanted to be of service to her country; she was not asking to go out as a heroine of the ordinary type; instead, she simply announced that she wanted to go as a temporary member of Colonel Harbin's family, to endure their hardships and to enjoy their enthusiasms. Mrs. Cable recognised the true motive, however.

Her pleadings were in vain. The Harbins had lucklessly urged Jane to join them. Telegrams flew back and forth across the continent and David Cable came on to present his feeble objections.

When the great transport sailed away, Jane Cable was one of her passengers, the ward of the regiment.

"It's just for a little while, dad," she said wistfully at the dock. "A few months. I'll think of you every minute I'm away."

The blood of the man in the service was calling to her. The ocean was between them; the longing to be near him, to tread the same soil, had conquered in the eternal battle of love. After all, no matter how the end was attained, she was a creature of life, brought into the world to love and to be loved. She put the past behind her and began to build a new future—a future in which the adoration of Graydon Bansemer was the foundation. The hope that makes all human averages was at the work of reconstruction; youth was the builder. The months of destruction had not left a hopeless ruin as the heritage of dead impulses.

The world grew brighter as the ship forged westward. Each day sent warmer blood into her veins and a deeper light into her eyes. The new life was not inspired by the longing to be his wife, but to see him again and to comfort him. She would be no man's wife.

At last, one hot, soft morning in early July, the great transport slipped past Corregidor and turned its nose across Manila bay, past Cavite, toward the anchorage which ended the long voyage. The city of Manila lay stretched out before them—Manila, the new American capital.

The troops were marched off to quarters and the Harbins, with Jane Cable, repaired at once to the Oriente, where they were to live prior to taking a house in Ermita or San Miguel. The campaign was not being pushed vigorously at this time; it was the rainy season. Desultory fighting was going on between the troops and the insurgents; there were numerous scouting and exploring expeditions into the enemy's country. The famous round robin of the correspondents had been sent to the United States by this time, taking severely to task the army censorship which prevented the real condition of affairs from reaching the deluded public. The situation was much worse on the island of Luzon than anyone at home could have imagined. But little truth escaped the vigilant wisdom of the arbitrarians. It was not until later on, however, that the effects of the round robin were felt in headquarters at Manila; when that time came the Ayuntamiento in the walled city was not a pleasant retreat for the newspaper men who had dared.

A week elapsed before Jane could find the opportunity to make inquiries concerning the whereabouts of Graydon Bansemer. Her thoughts had been of nothing else; her eagerness had been tempered by the diffidence of the over-zealous. She and pretty Ethel Harbin had made life endurable for the gay young officers who came over on the ship; the pretty wives of certain captains and lieutenants had small scope for their blandishments at close range. Flirtations were hard to manage in space so small. The two girls were therefore in a state of siege most of the time. The abject following fell away perceptibly when the broader field of action on shore gave their married sisters a chance to manoeuvre with some degree of security. A faithful few remained in train, however. Ethel Harbin, like the ingenue in the play, had each finger clumsily but tightly wrapped with a breathing uniform of blue. It must be admitted in shame, however, that she changed the bandages often and without conscience or ceremony.

Jane's admirers were in love with her. She was not the sort to inspire idle fancies—either in married or unmarried men. In any event, it looked a long time to these chaps before they could get back to the States, and she was worth while.

Perhaps her most, devoted admirer was Lieutenant Bray. Good-looking and coming from an excellent Southern family, he was a great favourite with all. Jane liked him better than any of the rest; she would have liked him still better had he been able to resist a tendency to boast of the stock from which he had sprung. The knowledge of her disadvantages in life, the contrast between their respective positions, all tended to emphasise the irony of fate; and she often found herself wondering how this sprig of true aristocracy would conduct himself if he discovered that, after all, she was only a FOUNDLING.

It was Lieutenant Bray who made inquiries at general headquarters and found, after considerable trouble, that Graydon Bansemer's company was in the north, subject to the requirements of Young, chief of scouts. Irksome were the lazy summer months for Jane. She tired of the attentions of men; she sickened with longing and anxiety. Day after day she prayed that the troops in the north might be relieved; she watched for the order that would call for their return from the wet lands above. Sickness was prevalent among the fighting corps; the wet season had undermined the health of many. Constant news came down to Manila of the minor engagements, and she looked at every report for news of Graydon. Colonel Harbin, occasionally, had private advices from the north. She heard of Graydon's bravery more than once and glowed with pride. Down in her tired, anxious heart she was wondering if it were possible for her to go to the front in any capacity.

At last, with October, came the waning of the rainy season. November brought active fighting. A general movement of the troops was directed against Aguinaldo. In his prime, as a leader, he controlled the north, and his capture was imperative. Lawton and Young began operations on the right; McArthur on the centre; with Wheaton pushing forward on the extreme left. The insurgents fell back from Tarlac. There were many big fights at San Jacinto and other places now famous in history.

The Red Cross society held forth at Malolos, reaching gradually into the country north. Sick and wounded men came into the hospitals daily and in larger numbers than one would have supposed. The villages or barrios all along the line of advance saw their convents turned into hospitals; as fast as possible the nurses were hurried up to them. Men and women in this noble service did heroic, faithful work both for the white and the brown men who went down. From the field hospitals the men were taken to the convents and treated until they were able to be moved to Manila.

Further north fled Aguinaldo and the Filipinos. Wheaton was ordered to cut off his retreat; Young was killed; Cunningham took charge of the scouts who scoured the country. Parties of ten or fifteen picked men fell out in advance of the main body, seeking to develop the enemy and his defences. These brave fellows attracted the hidden fire of ambush, exposed themselves to all the treacheries of warfare, and afterwards were mustered out with a kind word from the department. They were the men who tested the territory. It was with one of these scouting parties that Graydon Bansemer ventured far into the enemy's country early in November.

CHAPTER XXII — THE CHASE OF PILAR

Gregorio Del Pilar, the picturesque Filipino leader, about whom so much has been written in praise, by the war correspondents, was leading his men back into the dangerfields, inviting the American pursuers into every trap which his crafty brain could devise. History tells of Pilar's call to arms. He was attending a great ball in Dagupan, given in honour of his approaching nuptials. In the midst of the festivities a messenger dashed in with the news that the American troops were closing in on Tarlac, the insurgents' seat of government. Pilar rushed from the ballroom and made his way to the head of his command. His parting from the bride-to-be is pathetically described by many of the writers who were in the islands at the time. There was no more daring, romantic character in all the Philippines than young Pilar. Educated, refined, clever and attractive, he was a favourite with all, admired by friend and foe alike.

Captain Groce, with a company of infantry, was following him closely and doggedly into the fastnesses far to the north. Village after village was devastated by the white troops, always a few hours after the wily Pilar had evacuated. Amigos laughed in their deceptive sleeves at the Americans and misdirected them with impunity. In eight cases out of ten the amigo wore arms underneath his garment of friendship and slew in the dark whenever opportunity arose. Graydon Bansemer was one of this doughty, eager company which blazed the way into the hills. Close behind came the bigger and stronger forces, with guns and horse, and the hospital corps. It was the hunt of death for Aguinaldo and Pilar.

Shortly after daybreak, one morning, a slim, black figure crept out from among the trees and gave the countersign to the challenging sentry. He was soon on his way to the Captain's headquarters bearing news of importance. The brown-skinned scout had travelled all night over a hazardous route, and he was more than welcome. He brought news that Pilar's men were off to the east and the north, well intrenched and prepared to fall upon the Americans when they advanced blindly into the trap laid for them. The newspaper men pricked up their ears, and at once looked to a box of carrier pigeons which formed a most important part of their pilgrimage. A fight was at hand, doubtless an important meeting of the clashing forces. The whole army was waiting for intelligence of Pilar—waiting with little less anxiety than that which attached itself to the pursuit of Aguinaldo.

Captain Groce ordered Sergeant Gonnell with a picked squad to reconnoitre. They scurried off in advance of the company with instructions to locate the elusive enemy, and open up the secret of his position. Supposedly, Pilar was ten miles off among the rocky foothills which guarded the pass through the mountains. As usual, Bansemer was one of the scouts. He snatched his rations with the others and went forth eagerly to court the danger and the excitement that was promised. For days they had had no fighting worthy the name. Amigos everywhere, villages peopled only by women and children, treacherous peacefulness on every side; this had been their encounter: an occasional rifle shot from the rice fields, a crackle of guns far ahead, a prisoner or two who had not been quick enough in transforming himself from combatant to friend, that was all. Now, there seemed to be real fighting ahead.

Pilar was known to have many men—good soldiers all of them. The native scout gave close and accurate directions as to his position; it remained for Connell's men to draw him out, if possible. Captain Groce and the remainder of his eager company did not march until long after the scouts were on their precarious way.

Two hours after the party of eleven left the village, a Mauser bullet from the clump of trees far to the right cut through the hat of one of the scouts who was some distance in advance of his fellows. As he saw the scout stoop to pick up his hat, Rogers turned to the man nearest him and remarked:

"They'll get him sure as shootin' some day if he hikes along in that damn fool way."

It was no new experience for the scouts to find the quarry gone when they reached the place where they expected to find him. Pilar's own scouts had found that the ambuscade was destined to fail of its purpose, and the wily leader drew back into the more accessible country. The scouting party did not come in sight of the little brown soldiers. The occasional crack of a Mauser broke the silence of the advance, keeping the Americans in active touch with the dangers that surrounded them.

They found the deserted trenches and signs of recent occupation. The insurgents had been gone from the position less than two hours. Treachery faced the little squad of Americans on every side, but they did not falter. Connell scattered his men and they stole carefully into the fastnesses, finding on all sides evidences of hasty departure. Before noon they were far up in the hills, everywhere met by the physical assurance that the enemy was not far ahead of them. Behind them came Captain Groce and his men and the two correspondents.

Amigos along the mountain road gave information that was not worth having. A deserted village showed signs of the passage and finally there was proof ahead that Pilar had stopped to give battle. He had reached his vantage ground. Connell and his men drew back and waited. Nightfall came and with it the spiteful crack of the Mauser rifle. A brawny trooper toppled over with a great hole in his head. Pilar's pickets could see like cats in the night. The native scout reported that the big village of Concepcion was not far ahead; Pilar's men were making their stand before this rather important stronghold.

"We'll get a scrap that is a scrap, boys," said Connell, exultingly. "These fellows are going to put up a fight, at last. They're like bees up yonder. We've got to fall back on the company; if we don't, they'll chew us up before the little captain can get to us."

Too well did the men know the bellicose temperament of the big Irishman to think of grumbling at such a command; yet, it was with a certain reluctance which invariably accompanies a backward step that the men retired to meet the advancing company.

Young Bansemer in his khaki uniform was not the immaculate, debonnaire man of the drawing-room. Service, though short, had been hard and gruelling. His face was even handsomer with its rugged lines and set features. He was thinner and browner; his eyes were clearer and a darker grey; his hair seemed thicker and fairer than before; his figure more erect and sinewy. The wistful look in his eyes seemed to betray hunger for action; his ever-ready eagerness to be on the move told of his strength and of his weakness. He had the lean, active bearing of the panther and the restless daring of that lithe animal.

No man in the company had stood fire as valiantly as he. He courted the whiz of the bullet, scoffed at the rigours of the march, and instinctively was a good shot with the rifle. He bore no grudge against the department at home; he had no grievance.

The officers recognised in him a man of parts, a man of station far above the position which he had chosen in the army. He was a source of mystery to the men of his own rank in the line-the ploughboys, the teamsters, the roustabouts, and the ne'erdowells who had gone into the army from choice or discretion. At first they had called him the "dude," and had laughed at his white hands and clean jaws. His indifference to their taunts annoyed them. One day he knocked down the biggest bully of the lot and walked away without even waiting to see whether he could arise after the blow. He simply glared at the next man who chaffed. It was enough. The company held him in a new respect that forbade the reporting of the incident to the officer of the day.

Every night before he lay down to sleep, In the rice field or the barrios, he took from his pocket a leather case and gazed at the small portrait it sheltered. No one had been permitted to see him in his devotions, for that was what he called these sacred moments. His lean face, full of fierce energy all day long, softened as his eyes devoured the dainty miniature.

On meeting their company, Connell reported the situation ahead, to his superior officer; orders were given for the men to bivouac for the night in a small village close at hand. That evening Bansemer was discovered leaning against the corner of a nipa shack some distance from his comrades, smoking silently while they talked and made merry behind him. He seldom joined in the ribald but suppressed conversations of the men.

"Have you fellows ever noticed that he don't get any letters from the States-never seems to expect any?" asked Johnny Rogers, the one-time foundry man, who sat watching him. Graydon had not been the subject of conversation, but all knew whom Johnny meant by "he."

"I've noticed that, too," said Joe Adams.

"I got him sized up all right," said one of the Spurrier boys. "His people don't know where he's at. That feller's a swell at home an' he's had to skip out. I'll bet my breakfast his name ain't Bansemer. An' if his people don't know where he's at, how in thunder can they write to him? See what I mean?"

"Think he's a bank cashier?" asked Sim Relander.

"Naw; it ain't money, it's some girl. I know these swell guys," said Rogers. "You're right about his people not knowin' where to write. He's a mystery, that feller is. I'll tell what I think: his folks have fired him out—won't recognise him. See? Disgraced 'em, an' all that. That's why he ain't expectin' nothin' from home. He knows he won't get it."

"I feel kind o' sorry for a feller like that," mused Tom Reagan. "I had a brother that had to skip once."

"That so? Did he ever come back?"

"I s'd say not. He ducked for good. Mother had a letter from him couple o' months before I left home. He was in Milwaukee."

"Aw, this Bansemer's not that sort. He's made o' different stuff. Milwaukee? Holy Moses, it's only eighty mile from Chicago!"

"Gee, I'd like to have a glass o' the goods that made Milwaukee famous," sighed Joe Adams.

"I'd like a keg," said Jim Spurrier, with a wistful look in his eyes.

"S'pose we'll ever see a glass o' beer again?" asked the other Spurrier, solemnly.

"I'll bet Bansemer's wonderin' if he'll ever taste champagne again."

"Ask him, Johnny."

"Hey, Bansemer. I've got a riddle for you. What 'u'd you sooner have right now than a bottle of champagne?"

Graydon turned and sauntered slowly over to the group. He paused for a moment in passing, a broad smile on his face.

"A pail of beer," said he.

"Good fer you!" shouted two or three vociferously. He strode off to make ready for bed.

"He's all right," exclaimed Sim Relander feelingly, as if that laconic reply had been the only thing necessary to establish the young man's social standing.

"That feller's been out here only four months, an' I'll bet they ain't any ten men in the Philippines what's had as many clost calls as he's had," said Johnny Rogers. "I was thinkin' about it to-day. He's had more narrow escapes in tight places than—-"

"Well, the darned fool rushes right into 'em, don't he? He ain't got no sense. Nobody ought to git out where he can be shot at when there ain't no need. Take that blamed fool trick o' his'n there at Tarlac. When he went back all alone after the papers that Cap Groce dropped. I'll bet he was shot at two hundred times."

"Well, he didn't get hit, did he? If he gets hit good 'n' proper once he won't be so keen about showin' off," growled one of the men.

"Depends on where he's hit. Then, there was that time when he dumb the hill back yonder and turned the fire o' the gugus so's we could get up into the pass. He makes me think o' Lawton. There's the boy for me. If we had a few more generals like Lawton we'd put a crimp in these niggers so quick it would look like a spasm." Having delivered himself of this safe prophecy, Mr. Rogers glared about him for opposition. None forthcoming, he proceeded, with a satisfied snort, to refill his pipe.

"Lawton's makin' history, and don't you forget it," observed Luke Hardy.

"He's from Indiana," piped up a homesick ploughboy from the Hoosier State.

"Then, it'll be a historical novel," said the gaunt young recruit from Grand Rapids. He was a cynic who had tried newspaper work, and who still maintained that the generals did not have as much intelligence as the privates.

"I'll never forget Bansemer when he first enlisted," reflected Joe Adams. "He wanted to go out for a cold plunge and a morning stroll, and then asked the sergeant where he could get a good riding horse. He's not so keen about strolls these days."

"He don't turn up his nose at things like he used to, either."

"I don't see why the devil he keeps so clean," grumbled Adams. "I can't."

"I'll bet one thing," mused Rogers. "He'll be a captain or something before this scrap is over."

"He'll be a corpse, that's what he'll be."

"It's my opinion he'd just as lief be shot as not," said Relander. "The only trouble is that these measly niggers can't hit anything they shoot at. If the darned fools would only try to miss him, they'd get him sure. The devil and Tom Walker—what's that?"

CHAPTER XXIII — THE FIGHT IN THE CONVENT

"Halt! Who goes there!"

A shot rang out in the stillness of the night; it was answered at once by another closer in. More shots followed, gradually increasing to a fusillade as the scouts and pickets came running back. Men sprang up from the ground, but even as they did so another volley reached them, and three men dropped with a groan and lay still. The alarm sounded clear from the bugle and echoed back from the surrounding hills. A sharp command came from the throat of the sergeant; the company seized the stacked rifles. Captain Groce gave another order; the formation to repel attack was made in an incredibly short space of time. There was no disorder; no confusion. The little officer was as cool as if on dress parade.

"Steady, men! Wait until they're nearer!" They had not long to wait. From all sides a horde of shouting, firing men were rushing on the little square. "Steady, men!" was still his only command.

Then, when it seemed almost a physical impossibility to restrain their itching fingers from pulling the triggers, the longed for word was given.

"Here they are! Now, then, boys, fire!"

Volley after volley rang out. The foremost of the enemy fell at their feet. Hand to hand was the fighting; the bayonets lunged with deadly effect, but seemed powerless to thrust the mass back on itself. Men shot, hacked, stabbed and clubbed each other. It was a whirl of uplifting and descending rifles and bolos.

Fierce oaths vied with the shrieks of the wounded for supremacy. The grunt of men who slaughter; the gasps of the victims when the steel went home were heard on all sides. At times the soldiers could not see on account of the sweat and blood pouring from their faces; the very air was foul from the steam from the living and the dead. They could not breathe; a sort of vertigo overpowered them, and they only kept their feet by grappling with the enemy.

To Bansemer, it seemed that all his life he had been doing nothing but warding off and ring blows. Fighting side by side with Rogers, he saw, with horror, that the soldier's rifle had been torn from his hands, and that he had no weapon to defend himself; but before he could see just how it happened, this individual combat had altered its aspect: Rogers had grabbed a Filipino's gun and was doing the clubbing. With renewed zest Bansemer finished with the bayonet his own assailant, and saw the man fall on top of poor Adams and Relander.

Suddenly there was an exultant yell from the enemy. Instinctively Bansemer knew that one side of the square had given way. Quickly turning, he rushed to give his aid, and just in time caught the arm of a native about to slash him with a huge knife. With the two gripped hands high in the air struggling for mastery, the adversaries became separated a bit from the rest of the chaotic mass of friend and foe, swaying out to one side of the plaza, and under the walls of a convent. Bansemer was facing it; and just at the moment that he felt his strength giving way and could see a grin of triumph on the fiendish face, there carne a flash and a report, and his adversary fell at his feet. Glancing up to ascertain who had fired the shot that had saved his life, he thought he saw a figure disappearing from one of the windows. The incident acted as an inspiration. Gathering together a few men, he reached the Captain's side and communicated his plan. The opportunity was not to be lost. Groce gave an order; Connell repeated it. Then interpreting a temporary lull in the murderous struggle as their vantage, the men with a cheer, and dragging the field piece, broke for the building; and by bayoneting and clubbing the insurgents out of the way accomplished the dash with slight loss. The soldiers hurled themselves against the stoutly barred door; it fell with a crash.

Guards were stationed and all openings and windows manned. Singularly enough, these defensive actions seemed at least, temporarily unnecessary, for the watchers peering out of the windows reported that the dead alone occupied the recent field of battle. Not a single Filipino was to be seen on the plaza.

Every village has its convent or barrios. Generally speaking, their size corresponds in a certain ratio with the population. But this particular building was an exception. Dimly lighted, it gave the impression of ranking in size with many of those in far larger villages Immediately the thought came to the invaders that the church might have sheltered the insurgent leaders. Aguinaldo or Filar might have directed the attack from inside these walls. Orders were given to search every corner and crevice to ferret out concealed foes. A rear window was open, proving that flight could have been by that means of egress. Bansemer was almost positive that the bullet which had killed his assailant had come from one of the upper windows, but whether from friend or foe, was undeterminable. Was it possible that he had been mistaken? Had his eyes been so blinded with the smoke of battle that they had played him false? Were they not in a cunningly planned trap of some kind?

Considerably perplexed, Bansemer decided to keep on his guard. He was ruthlessly searching the chancel when a deep groan caught his attention. Presently, as he paused to listen, a dark figure leaped towards him from a recess back of the altar. The flash of a pistol blinded him, and momentarily, a sharp pain shot through his arm; but he recovered in time to throw his tall frame forward upon the slight, almost indistinguishable figure. There was a short struggle, and before his comrades could reach him his adversary was safely pinned to the floor. A moment later the torches in the hands of his friends were burning brightly above the figure of his captive—a slender boy who choked with terror and rage.

"Who the devil are you, my young friend?" asked Bansemer, holding the boy at arm's length.

There was no answer from the tightly closed lips; and Bansemer shook him a little roughly. Then, for the first time, he perceived that he was not a Filipino. His skin was dark, but not the skin of the native; the handsome, boyish face had regular features, European in character.

"Spaniard?" inquired Bansemer, a trifle more gently; and again the boy flashed a look of hatred into his captor's eyes.

"Look here, my young spalpeen," said Connell, gruffly; "Filipino or Spaniard, if you want to save your hide, you'd better answer questions—and no lies, do you hear?"

At this threat, a deep groan was heard to come from somewhere back in the recesses of the chancel. The men were startled. Involuntarily, the boy cast a furtive glance in that direction. Connell noticed it, and leaving the boy with Bansemer, hurried away and soon was looking down into the face of a prostrate man, young, but aged with emaciation.

"You must not touch him! Don't you see that he is dying?" cried the boy piteously in broken English. "He cannot fight you—he's dying;" and then, in a perfect frenzy of rage to Bansemer: "Let me go—pig!"

Not until afterwards did Bansemer recall that in the general excitement it was the boy who dragged him along to the spot. And in spite of the solemnity of the scene, there was something in his manner of delivering the insult that amused rather than angered the American.

"Plucky little devil!" he said, half-aloud.

Again the sick man groaned, tried to rise from the blankets and speak, but only to fall back moaning. Connell cautioned him against exertion and promised that no harm should come to either of them. While he reported the discovery to Captain Groce, he had the man carried to another part of the church and there made comfortable. For the first time now, Bansemer began to notice the pain in his arm. Somewhat angrily, he turned to the boy:

"Come! Give an account of yourself! How came you here?"

"Prisoners," was the sullen answer.

"Of the Filipinos?" Bansemer asked, in surprise.

"Yes."

"Then why did you try to kill me?"

"I hate you both! We Spaniards, have we not as much to fear from you? What difference does colour make in brutes?"

"By the holy apostles! you're a gritty, young 'un!" growled the returning sergeant. "Who's the other chap?"

"My brother—he's dying," said the boy, his voice softening. "Holy Virgin, save him! For weeks, we've been in the hands of Aguinaldo's men. He's been so ill, all the time; have you a doctor?"

"A surgeon will probably be with us before long," was the sergeant's evasive reply.

Bansemer looked searchingly at Connell. What he saw in the other's eyes caused him a sharp pang of grief. Both men turned their faces away for a moment and it was with a gulp that Connell continued:

"Your brother will have the best of care if we get out of this mess. You are both safe. We are not fighting the Spaniards;" and then, pertinently: "So these were Aguinaldo's men?"

"Yes, he was here directing the fight," the boy answered.

"Aguinaldo here!" This and other ejaculations of surprise and anger burst in chorus from every throat; but as suddenly they were followed by expressions of chagrin. For, by contrasting the present situation with that which they had anticipated, this information had succeeded in intensifying their mortification.

But notwithstanding his share of the universal disappointment, a hasty reflection of preceding events convinced Graydon that personally he had little ground for complaint against the late occupants of the convent. For unintentional as undoubtedly had been the act through which at the very point of death his existence had been preserved, there was no evidence to refute the hypothesis that the shot which had killed his assailant in the plaza had been fired by one of the insurgents under cover.

"Great Scott!" was the exclamation to which he gave utterance. "Once more, I suppose, I owe my life to the blundering marksmanship of a Filipino!"

This half-hearted acknowledgment of his strange indebtedness educed from his companions no recognition other than a puzzled stare from the sergeant and an enigmatical smile on the face of the young Spaniard. Connell proceeded with his examination:

"Why did they leave you here?"

"They had no time to take us with them when you broke in," was the boy's answer. "Aguinaldo was on his way to some village where his family is in hiding. The scouts told him of your presence; then he determined not to wait for Pilar, but to surprise you. We never rested day or night. My poor brother—how he suffered!"

"Yes, yes, but why are they carrying you on a march like this?"

"My brother is the only man who knows where the Spanish gold was hidden when our war was ended—I mean, the gold that came up with guns and ammunition. Aguinaldo is looking for the hiding place. My father, a high officer in the Spanish Army, died of the fever last winter. We were stolen from our house in Manila by Aguinaldo's men, and have been going from place to place ever since. We have not told of the hiding place. The Americans do not need gold, no?" The boy laughed sarcastically.

"How many men has Aguinaldo?"

"Three hundred or more. I would advise you to look out for Pilar. He, too, may come at any moment."

Scarcely had the words left his mouth when a storm of yells came from outside the convent; and immediately the boy rushed to his brother's side.

"Great Caesar, there's a thousand of them!" cried Rogers.

Instantly every man made for the position assigned to him. The gun was in readiness. Outside, the Mausers rattled, bullets coming from all quarters and thumping sharply against the opposite walls with a patter that warned the Americans against standing erect.

Occasionally, a scout would peep from a window and take a shot into the darkness, but these ventures were few. All lights were extinguished; the men fired at the spots from which burst the flames of rifles, then dropped suddenly. After a while the firing of the Filipinos dwindled into a shot now and them.

"Keep low! They don't dare risk a charge! Be ready to defend the door!" Captain Groce commanded.

The night wore on, and, with the cessation of hostilities, confidence increased. Reinforcements were not far off, and it did not seem possible that the sounds of battle could not be heard. The men, worn out by the exciting events of the day, were generally silent; Sergeant Connell, however, was an exception.

"Get us I Not a bit of it!" he was saying. "The dirty, little cowards! Major March will be here in the shake of a dead lamb's tail."

An hour later Bansemer, his rifle in hand, sitting near one of the windows, suddenly felt someone tugging at his arm. Turning, he saw the Spanish boy.

"Won't you come and help me to carry my brother behind the stone altar wall?" he was saying. "He is exposed to the bullets and cannot move himself."

"Willingly!" and Graydon followed his lead. As if he was a child, he picked up the gaunt Spaniard and carefully bore him to the place of shelter. But despite all that he could do to hide his suffering, the pain in his arm, which the removal of the man had increased, was such, for a moment, that he felt faint and staggered. The boy was quick to notice it, and quickly asked:

"What is the matter? Wounded?"

"It's nothing—merely a scratch."

"Oh, I know—why, it's your arm—and I—-" The boy's face crimsoned with shame and contrition. Through the semi-darkness the blush escaped Graydon's notice, but not so the truly feminine, little shriek of dismay, as he touched and felt the wet sleeve.

"It was I who did it! Oh, how can you ever forgive me?"

Graydon, dumbfounded, stared in wonder.

"What?" he exclaimed; "you're a girl?"

"Yes—I'm his sister," pointing to the dying man; then, with some embarrassment: "These clothes? They are the only ones they would give me. You see a girl would have been a burden; a boy none at all. Do you think that had I been a man you could so easily have overpowered me? No!"

The slim, little figure drew itself up straight and defiant before him. Despite the loose, ugly garments of the Filipinos, Graydon noticed, for the first time, that the figure was perfectly moulded and high-bred. She swept off the wide hat she wore, and the man saw a mass of dark hair done up tightly on her head. But even while he gazed her mood changed; she became subserviently anxious and begged him to let her attend to his arm. She pleaded so hard that, to please her, he yielded. Water was obtained from somewhere; the slight flesh wound washed; and then, disappearing into the darkness, to his amazement she returned almost instantly with some bandages and dressed his arm.

While this surgical operation was going on, Graydon, for the life of him, could not resist the temptation to ask her again why she had tried to shoot him. At first, so terribly in earnest did she take the question and beg for mercy, that he smiled at her; and then, seeing his amusement, she said, coquettishly:

"How could I possibly have known that you were so nice? Besides, I had always heard you Americans referred to as brutes."

Graydon laughed, then suddenly his face became very grave. The realisation of her terrible situation had dawned upon him. A woman among a crowd of rough soldiers! Her brother and protector dying! And all surrounded by hordes of savage enemies who at any moment might kill them! The thought dismissed all pleasantry from his mind. Something must be done, and at once. Presently, he asked:

"What is your name?"

"My father was Colonel Ramos Jose Velasquez; that also is my brother's name, except that he is not an officer. I am Teresa Fortune Velasquez. My mother was English—a sister of Sir William Fortune. She is dead. For ten years we have lived in Manila."

"You won't mind if I call the sergeant, will you?"

The girl nodded a slightly bewildered assent as Graydon moved rapidly towards the others. Shortly, he returned with the gallant Irishman.

"Senorita," began Connell, mopping his forehead and assuming his most polite manner; "you are perfectly safe with us, and as quickly as possible your brother and yourself shall be sent back to Manila. You are a brave slip of a girl, and we boys respect bravery in whatever dress—boy or girl."

She looked at him in grateful surprise and her lips trembled.

"But I am not your friend?"

"Possibly, senorita;" he bowed low with almost Chesterfieldian grace; "but we are your friends."

Outside, once more the Mausers were rattling, and Connell, with a word of parting hastily took his leave. Graydon, on the point of returning to his post, was prevented by the girl.

"You were gentle with me even when I tried to—-Don't risk your life there. Shoot from that narrow gate," pointing aloft; "it's not so exposed."

Bansemer dragged an altar chair up to the grated window and perched himself upon it. The girl sat below him, holding her brother's head in her lap. He was groaning and crying out to the soldiers to kill him rather than permit him to fall into the hands of the natives again.

Suddenly there was a great commotion, and crashing of timbers in the front part of the church, followed by shouts and the rushing of feet. Graydon dropped from his perch and ran forth into the chancel. As he did so the banging of rifles close at hand deafened him. In an instant he saw what had happened. The Filipinos had charged the door and had forced it. They were crowding their way into the church in the face of the deadly Krag-Jorgensens. The chapel was lighted, but not from the inside. Cunning insurgents, in the shelter of the walls, were holding great torches just outside of the windows. Graydon could see his comrades firing at the door from behind every conceivable barrier. Without hesitation he dashed down the aisle and into the thick of the fray near the door.

The struggle was brief but fierce. The merciless fire of many Mausers on the outside opened a way through the small band of defenders, and the rush of the besiegers was successful. Through the door and windows they came, swarming like bees. Many of them fell to rise no more, but their comrades took an eye for an eye. Once confident soldiers toppled over dead until but few were left. Bansemer led them in a quick dash for the chancel, hoping that the enemy would not dare attack a place so sacred.

Captain Groce and other officers had fallen; Connell became the leader of the remnant. Bansemer stood squarely in front of the altar and blazed away at the horde of Filipinos as they advanced. They shot at him wildly and without effect; bullets crashed into the altar decorations behind him. He stood there as one protected by God, unharmed in the shelter of the cross.

Behind him his comrades cowered and cursed in their dread of certain death. He heard the shrill cries of the girl urging him to protect her brother. She was calling upon God and the Holy Virgin to aid and shield him. And he stood there with a crazy joy in his heart, savagely pulling the trigger of the Krag-Jorgensen. Finally the hammer snapped with no report. As he turned back in consternation, a small figure leaped to his side with a fresh weapon.

He shouted a word of warning to her and wheeled again to confront the foe. Even as he raised the gun a great shout arose above the noise of conflict. There was a mighty rush, a new banging of guns, a sudden stampede and—the chapel was filled with men in khaki!