The night after the hanging of Juan Vagas, the insurrecto, who had tried to raid Igut and carry off Mrs Bush, Basil Hayle dined at the Military Club, where they made much of him, although, as a rule, the Army regarded the Constabulary much as it regarded the Civil Service, as being beneath its notice, which was quite unjust—so far as the Constabulary was concerned.

It was well after midnight when Basil left the Club in the company of old Major John Flint of the Infantry. They were both staying at the same hotel, and their way back led through the narrow streets of the Walled City, and thence across the Bridge of Spain, into the newer part of Manila. They passed one or two native police slouching along, looking what they really were, more like thieves than thief-takers. With the exception of these, however, the streets seemed to be absolutely deserted; consequently, when, from out of a dark gateway, a couple of natives, or rather mestizos, armed with knives, sprang at Basil and his companion, the white men were taken absolutely unawares.

Basil dodged to one side as his assailant struck, and the knife merely caught him a glancing blow on the ribs, doing little damage; then he himself got a grip on the mestizo’s throat, lifted him bodily off the ground with the other hand, and flung him at the man who was attacking Major Flint. The second mestizo staggered, dropped his knife, then took to his heels and fled down the street, right into the arms of a gigantic Sikh watchman from a neighbouring Government building—you can make your Little Brown Brother into a judge of the High Court, but you cannot trust him to guard Government stores—who, hearing shouts, had hurried up. The Sikh did not waste either time or words. He took that mestizo by the collar of his coat with one hand, and by his belt with the other hand, and forthwith dashed his brains out on the pavement, then tossed the body into the middle of the street, and began to wonder how he should purify himself after having touched such an unclean thing.

Basil was binding his handkerchief round an ugly flesh wound in the major’s forearm, and keeping his foot on the neck of the other mestizo, when the Sikh came up and saluted.

“I have killed the one, Sahib,” the watchman said. “Shall I——?” he nodded expressively towards the other would-be murderer, who, hearing the words, squirmed.

Basil smiled and shook his head. “I think not, serjeant. But I wish you would look after him whilst we go along the street and see if we can find some of the police. How about the other one?”

The Sikh saluted again. “I caught him trying to break into the Government store-house. He attacked me with a knife, and in the struggle I happened to kill him. So I shall report to-morrow, Sahib. It will save trouble,” he added simply.

“Curious dearth of police,” Basil remarked to the major as they walked up the street after leaving the Sikh in charge. “It rather looks as if they didn’t want to be about. I shouldn’t have had much of a show if I had been alone, as I suppose they expected me to be. Hullo! what’s that building lighted up? The Manila Star, isn’t it? We might go in and see Clancy, and get him to telephone for a carromato for you. That hand of yours ought to be seen to at once; and I expect he’s got a drink there.”

Clancy was just preparing to leave. He had just sent his paper to press—he was his own chief sub-editor—but he went back to his room when he saw his visitors.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, “what’s this? You’ve got it in the hand, major; and you seem to have got it in the ribs, Hayle,” pointing to a wet, dull red patch on Basil’s tunic.

Basil looked down in surprise. “I didn’t even know the little beast had got through my clothes,” he said. “It can only be a scratch. I wish you would telephone to the livery stable for a carromato, and then to the police.”

Whilst they were waiting, Basil gave the editor an outline of what had occurred. Clancy groaned. “My luck. If it had been half an hour earlier, it would have been a fine scoop for the paper. ‘Vengeance for Vagas’—there’s a snorting good headline for you.”

They saw the major off to the hospital in the carromato, and then Clancy walked down the street with Basil to the scene of the attack. The Sikh was still on guard, having secured the prisoner with his belt.

“Let’s have a look at this chap,” Clancy said, but when he had scrutinised the mestizo’s features, he shook his head. “I don’t know him at all;” then they went over to where the other lay, in the middle of the road, and Clancy gave a low whistle. “This one I do know, though. He is, or rather he was, in the Education Department, one of Dr Charburn’s especial pets—in fact, I heard they were going to make him headmaster of some Government school. There’ll be a vacancy now, I guess.”

A few minutes later the police came along, three natives, and took over the prisoner with an air of surly indifference to the whole matter. Even the sight of the Constabulary officer’s uniform was insufficient to make them outwardly civil and respectful. As they were moving off, Basil caught the word “hangman,” and flushed crimson. Then he called them back.

“When I come round to-morrow morning I shall report you for not saluting. Do you hear? I will take no insolence from you. Now get along quick, or there’ll be more trouble for you.”

Clancy smiled. “You needn’t worry to go to the station in the morning. That prisoner will escape.”

He proved to be a true prophet. When Basil was shown into the police captain’s room, the latter gave him a queer look. “Want me on business, Captain Hayle?” he asked. “Or is this just a friendly social call?”

Basil understood. “Has he got away?”

The police captain nodded and pushed the box of cigars across to his guest. “It never happened. Major Flint had an accident to his hand, and you—well, your ribs don’t show. The night captain called up Some One; and he said that, with the Vagas and Guiterrez business, they had had about enough to be going on with for some time; so your friend was let loose, and has probably bought a new knife by now.”

“Who was he?” Basil asked.

The captain mentioned the name of a well-known mestizo planter. “His youngest son, just back from London, where they seem to allow any fool-doctrine to be taught to coloured men. Pity the Sikh didn’t finish him too whilst he was about it.”

“I’ll make sure myself next time,” Basil said grimly; “one gets tired of this sort of business. What did they do with the other fellow?”

“That carrion?” The police captain was a man of plain speech. “The night captain proposed to tie a stone to it and drop it over the Bridge of Spain, into the Pasig; but he got orders to discover an accidental death, a fall from an upper window—you understand?—and they’re going to have a big funeral to-day, all the Education Department, wreaths, speeches, flourishing career cut short, and so on. Makes you smile, doesn’t it?”

Basil Hayle thought of the knife which had glanced along his ribs, and the big gash in the old major’s hand, and the Sikh wondering how he could purify himself after having touched such vermin, but most of all he thought of the shame and the danger to his country, and therefore he did not smile.

As he got up to leave, a sudden thought struck him. “Clancy knows,” he said. “Clancy was on the spot a few minutes afterwards.”

The police captain nodded. “I’ve just seen him, and, as a favour to the force, he is going to forget it. But he wouldn’t have done so for Furber; no, sir. Awkward sort of an Irishman, unless you handle him right. They’d have deported him long ago, if he had been an American citizen. Well, so-long, Captain. I’d be careful, if I were you, at nights. You might have a worse accident next time.”

“I’m leaving for Igut by the coastguard steamer this afternoon,” Basil answered.

Commissioner Furber made no reference to the incident of the previous night when Basil called on him to see if there were any further orders, nor did the Captain himself allude to it.

“You will go back to your post at Silang,” the Commissioner said, “and police that district, endeavouring to obtain as much information as possible concerning Felizardo. One thing more—remember you are posted on the northern side of the mountains, and there you are to remain. We want no more of these theatrical marches, ending in massacres of deluded peasants. I have had reports from the Presidente and other local officials, as well as from some friends in Manila, which go to prove that Igut was never in any real danger. I might add that the Governor-General is extremely annoyed at your conduct. You know his constant endeavour has been to gain the confidence and good-will of our Little Brown Brothers.”

It was one of Mr Commissioner Furber’s customs never to look a man in the face; consequently, he missed Basil’s expression, though, perhaps, the way in which Basil strode out of the room may have told him something.

Mr Furber sighed. “A most dangerous, insolent Southerner,” he murmured. “And yet, whilst he is a hero in Manila it would be unsafe to dismiss him. I could almost wish that those men last night——” He broke off suddenly, conscious that he was lapsing from those strict Methodist principles in which he had been brought up.

Mr Commissioner Gumpertz, on the other hand, had fewer religious scruples, having been in politics much longer than his colleague. “I wish to blazes they had knifed the swine,” he said. “He’s put a stop to the sale of that hemp land. I can’t get any one to go out and have a look at it now. They just shake their heads, and say, ‘Head-hunters.’ ”

Mr William P. Hart, to whom he spoke, expectorated carefully at a lizard on the window-sill. “Furber will give him plenty of chances of getting his throat cut. Furber’s a bit pious, but he don’t forget all the same, nor does Sharler. This Vagas business has hit ’em hard; and Mrs Sharler, Vagas’s sister you know, has a tongue. It’s not nice for a Chief Collector of Customs to have his brother-in-law hanged publicly. Did you hear they burned the new gallows at Calocan last night?”

Basil heard the same news as he was going aboard the coastguard steamer, and laughed grimly. “A bit futile, isn’t it?” he remarked to his informant. “They had served their purpose already.”

Basil only stayed a few hours at Igut, just long enough to see Mrs Bush, and tell her what had occurred in Manila. She shuddered a little when she heard how he had been ordered to superintend the executions. “How horrible!” she said; “and what an abominable insult to you. I wonder you did not refuse.”

He shook his head. “It was meant as an insult, I know; but I was glad to do the job.”

“Why?” She looked at him in amazement, and he thought a little coldly. “Why, Captain Hayle? You say you were glad to be a kind of hangman!”

“I did not mean Juan Vagas to escape,” he answered. “I had sworn he should die, if I had to go into the prison and shoot him myself.” And there was a look on his face which showed her he meant what he was saying.

“But I don’t quite understand why you should have been so bitter against him personally. What was the reason?”

Basil was staring out of the window. “I can’t explain now; perhaps I will, some day, later on.” And with that she had to be content for the moment, though, by dint of questioning her maid, who in turn questioned others in the town, she got some clue to the truth a few days later, and found much food for thought therein. She began to understand what had kept Basil going through that terrible march from Silang.

Captain Bush came in just before Basil left. The Scout officer was grateful for what the other had not said in his report, and expressed his thanks with what was for him almost heartiness.

“Going to stay to-night?” he added. “We can put you up.”

“Sorry it can’t be managed,” Basil answered. “I brought my ten men back with me, and I want to get across to Silang as soon as I can. No, I must go.” He stared out of the window again.

Mrs Bush, watching him, understood what an effort it was costing him to say those words, and honoured him in her heart accordingly.

“I am going to have a try at Felizardo. They are sending Vigne’s company of Scouts round to co-operate with mine.” Bush’s voice recalled Basil suddenly. “We are going to try and show you Constabulary how to do things.”

Basil gripped the arm of his chair at the thought which immediately flashed through his mind. “Bush is going up to Felizardo’s mountains. Would Bush ever come back?” He, Basil Hayle, knew only too well what the dangers of the expedition would be.

For an instant Basil thought of saying nothing, of letting the other go to his fate; then he remembered that, though Bush might be a man he loathed, Bush was also, and above all things, an officer in the service of the United States, so he spoke very gravely. “I have been up there, Bush, and I know what it means. Two companies of Scouts are utterly useless for the job. You will be able to do practically nothing, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t get cut to pieces as soon as you are well into the jungle. It is sheer lunacy sending you up.”

Bush flushed crimson. “When I want your advice——” he began, then checked himself. “Thanks for the information,” he went on more quietly; “but Scouts are not Constabulary.”

Unconsciously, perhaps, Basil glanced towards Mrs Bush. She was leaning forward, with her chin resting on her hand, and he thought he read an appeal in the look she gave him. He got up at once. “No,” he said, “Scouts are not Constabulary, so you may have different luck from what I had. I hope so.” Bush, ashamed of his outburst, muttered some thanks, but Mrs Bush, pondering over it afterwards, was not quite sure whether he had understood the other man’s meaning aright, for had not Basil been up the mountains, and come back, unharmed?…

Basil Hayle found the stockade at Silang in perfect order. The five sick men he had left in it when he made the forced march to Igut were all well again, and back at duty. No one had interfered with them during the days when they had formed the sole garrison; rather otherwise, in fact, for a party of Felizardo’s men had actually come down and made a camp a few hundred yards away, thus preventing any possibility of attack from a wandering band of ladrones, or from those abominable head-hunters. For the first few hours, the five had been distinctly alarmed, then some of the outlaws had come forward and explained matters. After that, everything had gone very smoothly. Felizardo’s men had plenty of fresh meat, the Constabulary had some especially choice cigarettes; consequently, it was no difficult matter to do a deal. On the second morning, three of the soldiers were actually guests in the outlaws’ camp, but a return invitation was declined. The chief had given definite orders on that point. Then, suddenly, there had come the news of the killing at Igut—wonderful, splendid news, which had made the five rejoice greatly one moment, and the next moment gnash their teeth with envy of their comrades who had been in the fight. The fact that they, themselves, must inevitably have fallen out long before the column had reached the head of the pass was entirely forgotten. Half an hour before the serjeant and the other men had returned, a boudjon had sounded a mile or so away, and when, a few minutes later, one of the five had glanced towards the outlaws’ camp, not a trace of Felizardo’s men was to be seen. Their special mission was concluded.

From that time onwards, matters had gone very smoothly. Possibly, the serjeant’s rule had been a little lax, but, none the less, it had been effective, and, even if the tao of Silang had seen a good deal of the Constabularios, more perhaps than they wanted, guards had been mounted regularly, and every man had slept within the stockade.

The little men were unaffectedly glad to see their officer back, and Basil, on his part, was by no means sorry to settle down again. So much had happened since he had left Silang that the prospect of a rest was not unwelcome, even though it entailed being practically cut off from the outer world, which, to his mind, now meant from Mrs Bush. Unfortunately, however, his contentment did not last very long. Before he had been at Silang a week, he had begun to hunger for news from the other side of the mountain range, especially for news of the Scout expedition against Felizardo, which was due to start about that time. Yet, though he sent messenger after messenger to his brother officer, Lieutenant Stott, at Catarman, he learned nothing definite.

“Vigne’s Scouts haven’t turned up yet at Igut,” was all that Stott could report, whereat Basil had raged, knowing that every day of delay must make disaster more certain. Then suddenly a messenger had come in from Catarman, bringing news, not only of the starting of the expedition, but also of its return ….

Mrs Bush had watched the Scouts march out dry-eyed. The parting between her husband and herself had been unmarked even by the formality of a hand-shake, for she had heard already of another parting which had taken place in the lower end of the town an hour previously, and he had divined that she knew. Still, there had been something almost wistful in the man’s eyes, some hint of the lover which had been, and a word, the right word, would have changed everything. She had thought, too, that she was giving him a chance to say it when she pleaded: “Do be careful, John, won’t you? Don’t do anything rash. Remember how they cut Captain Hayle’s force to pieces.”

The mistake had lain in mentioning Basil, as she realised immediately. Bush’s face had grown dark at once, and he had muttered a curse on the Constabulary in general, and Basil Hayle in particular; then with a curt “Good-bye” he had stalked out into the plaza, where Lieutenant Vigne was awaiting him. Mrs Bush had kept her tears back until they were out of sight, then she had hurried to her room, wondering why people were allowed to be so wretched.

It was a cargadore, one of Bush’s carriers, who brought in the first news. He arrived about noon on the following day, breathless, in rags, with a slight bolo-cut in his shoulder. He was the sole survivor, he declared to old Don Juan Ramirez, who cross-examined him. Was he quite sure of that? They gave him a much-needed glass of spirits and a cigarette, and then asked him again. Was he still sure there were none others? No, now he came to think of it there were some left, a little group, which, with Bush as its rear guard, was retreating down the hillside, fighting all the way, when he himself managed to dive into the jungle. There were many wounded too, very many, and the other officer was dead. He, Pedro, had actually seen his head cut off with a bolo. On that point he was certain.

Don Juan had heard enough. He sighed, put on the black silk jacket he kept for ceremonial occasions, and went to pay one of his rare visits to Mrs Bush, whom he admired as much as he loathed her husband. She came down to meet him, white-faced and trembling, having seen the cargadore arrive. “They are coming back,” Don Juan said.

She drew a deep breath. “Ah! And Captain Bush?”

Don JosÉ prided himself on his knowledge of womankind, but he could not decide what her tone meant. “Captain Bush is bringing them back. I hear, though, that there are many wounded. I have told them to clear out my big warehouse to serve as a hospital. Perhaps you would honour me by coming to see to the arrangements?”

She clutched eagerly at the chance of having something to do, and when, just before sundown, the remnant of the column crawled in, with half a dozen badly wounded on rough stretchers, and only fifteen unwounded out of the forty-eight survivors, it found everything ready. The surgeon, who had come up with Lieutenant Vigne, and had himself escaped untouched, forgot half his weariness when he glanced round. “Thank God!” he said. “I was afraid there might be nothing, not even hot water. Do you think you could help me, Mrs Bush? Can you stand the sight of it? Very well.” Then he stripped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and barely said a word till midnight, when he straightened himself up, and after that staggered a little. “That is all, Mrs Bush. Now, could you give me a drink?”

She brought him the bottle and a glass. He poured out nearly half a tumblerful of brandy, and drank it off like water. “You can do that when you’ve been through Hell, Mrs Bush,” he said, noticing her look. “I think I’ll have a sleep now,” and he rolled his jacket up for a pillow, and put it in one of the corners.

She laid her hand on his sleeve. “But you can’t do that, doctor. You must come to the house. I have a room ready for you.”

He bent down and kissed her hand, being overwrought. “One of those men will certainly die before dawn, two others are just on the border line. If I am here, I may save them. The orderlies will call me when the crises come.”

Mrs Bush went out, returning a couple of minutes later. The doctor was already asleep, so she took a blanket from a pile behind the door, and covered him over very gently; then she went back to the house to look for her husband, whom, so far, she had only seen for a moment—just long enough to make sure that he was unwounded. But Captain Bush was not to be found.

“He went out with the Treasurer and the Supervisor, Senora,” a very sleepy muchacho informed her.

Like the doctor, Mrs Bush was deadly tired, and yet it was almost dawn before she went to sleep; this was the final, the most abominable insult of all. Next morning she took a definite step, writing a long letter to Captain Basil Hayle, giving him an account of the expedition as she had heard it from the doctor, in itself a perfectly harmless letter, and yet one the sending of which amounted to a repudiation of her husband’s right to control her. He had his friends; she would have hers.

The story of the fight had been the story of Basil’s defeat of two or three months previously over again; only, this time, no boudjons had given warning; and the attack had begun with a volley poured in at twenty yards range by riflemen hidden amongst the undergrowth. The Scouts, winded by the long climb up the muddy hillside, had been able to put up no effective resistance against the bolomen, who came in under cover of the smoke. Those who did escape, leaving some seventy of their comrades, including Lieutenant Vigne, dead in the jungle, owed their safety to the fact that they had been able to keep together in a bunch; but, even then, it had been a running fight all the way back to the level ground, a fight in which Bush had showed a savage, dogged courage, being himself the last man the whole time.

The Philippine Scouts though often, as in this case, loaned to the Civil Government, form part of the United States Army; consequently, it was impossible for the Commission to do as it had done in the case of Basil Hayle’s disaster, suppress news of the whole affair. The Army had the best of reasons for despising and detesting the politicians at the Palace, so it was not long before all Manila was in possession of the facts.

Mr Commissioner Furber waxed exceeding wroth, and proceeded to make matters much worse for his colleagues and himself by attempting to blame the Scouts.

“Felizardo has only some fifty followers in all,” he declared to a representative of the leading mestizo paper, which reproduced his remarks. “We have that on the best authority. It seems amazing that the Scouts should have retreated before such a small body, leaving so many dead behind them. The Governor-General is most perturbed about the affair, fearing that people at home may imagine that the culprits are some of our Little Brown Brothers, instead of being a gang of thieves and murderers.”

During the following months, expedition after expedition was dispatched against Felizardo, each larger and more costly than the last; yet each came back with a story of hardship and disaster. If Felizardo did allow it to get above the jungle on to the open mountain-side, it was sniped at, every foot of the way, by unseen riflemen, until its nerve was gone, and it decided to return to the cover of the bush, where the bolomen speedily got to work on it. No trace of a permanent camp was ever found, the enemy was never seen, save when he himself had chosen the time and place. It was inglorious, nerve-shattering, futile; and when the last expedition, which had consisted of some four hundred Scouts and Constabulary, returned with twenty men short and nearly fifty wounded, there was a very general feeling that Felizardo should be left alone for the future.

“After all,” as the General in command of Manila said to the Governor, “what harm does the old man do to us? I understand that, from the first, he has only asked to be left alone. I know he hanged some of your Brown Brothers—a good thing too. I wish he had hanged every insurrecto. They all deserved it.”

Whereupon, the Governor, who had never been in the war, and knew his Brown Brother only as a useful pawn in a certain political game in the United States, grew angry, and as soon as the plain-spoken General had gone, sent for Mr Commissioner Furber and one or two distinguished officials who had held great positions under the insurrecto Government, and with these he took counsel, and, after much discussion and deliberation, there was evolved a great scheme, which seemed certain to succeed.

“I will go out myself,” Mr Furber said, “then I shall know that no chance of escape is being allowed to the old villain.”

The scheme, like that of the late Juan Vagas, took a little time to prepare. “We must get some source of information from within,” the Commissioner declared, and, with that end in view, he gave two of his mestizo assistants a free hand to buy the help of one, or, if possible, more of Felizardo’s men. The first pair of mestizos drew five thousand pesos for a start, then, probably in a fit of mental aberration, wandered aboard the Hong Kong steamer, and were seen no more in the Philippine Islands. The second pair were more successful; in fact, possibly because they were escorted as far as Igut, the men did their work extremely well. Mr Furber never enquired into the means employed, and no explanation was volunteered. Still, as the reports which came in showed, two of the band had unquestionably turned traitors. The Commissioner was well pleased; it was a good start.

Then, from all parts of the Islands, native troops, Scouts and Constabulary, every man who could be spared from his district, began to come in to Manila, until there were fully three thousand of them ready, if not exactly eager, to start on the great rounding up of the outlaws. Only Basil Hayle and his company seemed to have been left out.

“There is always trouble where that man goes,” the Commissioner said to the Governor-General. “We had better let him stay at Silang. He must be pretty weary of the place by now, and he may resign. I hope so,” a view with which the other, who had no fondness for soldiers and men of action, agreed.

They made a base camp at Igut, greatly to the astonishment and profit of the people of the place. Mr Commissioner Furber stayed with the Presidente, and was not introduced to Mrs Bush, although he had expressed a desire to meet her.

“Tell him,” Mrs Bush said to a mutual acquaintance who mentioned the matter to her, “tell him that if he chooses to stay in a native’s house, he can remain with the natives. I have a prejudice in favour of my own colour,” words which, when repeated to Mr Furber, tended to confirm his prejudice against women from the South. He, in turn, repeated the words to the Presidente, who thereupon made a remark about Mrs Bush and Captain Hayle which would have caused most white men to throw him out of the window, and would inevitably have made Basil Hayle kill him. But Mr Commissioner Furber, being of the Brown Brother school, listened to it all, and congratulated himself on having got a new weapon against the Constabulary officer.

They distributed a thousand men along the northern side of the range, and a thousand along the southern side, whilst a thousand more went up on to the pass which you crossed going to Silang, and started to sweep the upper heights, whilst the others closed in gradually. They were going to drive the outlaws into that same patch of jungle where Basil had met with defeat, at the seaward end of the range, near Katubig.

Mr Furber himself took up his quarters near the site of the latter place, whither the Presidente of Igut accompanied him, rather reluctantly, feeling, perhaps, that he was going rather too near to Felizardo’s country, though he did not like to say so much to the Commissioner.

It is one thing to order troops to sweep the heights of a mountain range, and then yourself to go down to the coast and wait for results; it is quite another matter for the troops themselves, especially when none of the men happen to be mountaineers by birth. Still, the little fellows did their best, despite the constant loss from snipers, who never save a chance of a shot in reply; and the officers were satisfied that none of the outlaws had slipped through the line.

The men on the northern slope met with no resistance, although, when the roll was called, it was obvious that, somehow or other, the head-hunters had secured twenty-four fresh trophies from stragglers; whilst the party on the south side never even fired a shot.

On the fourth morning, they reported to Mr Furber that they must have driven the outlaws down on to the seaward slope, and that it was now only a case of closing in and capturing, or slaying, the whole band. The message had hardly been delivered when another came in, this time from one of those two traitors in Felizardo’s own camp. The band had broken up suddenly the previous night. The outlaws, feeling the game was hopeless, had gone, each his own way, slipping through the cordon of troops in the darkness, singly, and leaving old Felizardo alone with the two traitors. The three were now hiding in a small patch of jungle, almost on the same spot where Basil had his fight, and, if the troops closed in quickly, they would be certain to get the old chief.

Mr Furber’s heart rejoiced, whilst a load of anxiety seemed to slip from the shoulders of the Presidente.

“Let them close in at once,” Mr Furber said. “They must lose no time, and when they have him, let them bring him down here, to Katubig. I have had a set of irons brought. As for the two—the two men who have been aiding us”—traitor is an ugly word—“see that they are not injured in the excitement.”

The troops moved quickly. They were utterly weary of their task, believing in their own minds that it must prove futile, but the unexpected news passed out by the traitors put fresh heart into them. They were going to capture the great Felizardo, after all; and each man would be able to declare to the girls in his village that it was he who had done the deed. They surrounded that stretch of jungle on every side, and they drew in the cordon until the men were almost touching one another, hand to hand; and yet there was never a sign of life from inside the ring.

A queer nervousness ran through them all, white officers and natives alike. Was he still there, the terrible little old man? Was he really going to be captured at last, after nearly thirty-six years? What was he doing now? What would he do? What—— And then Felizardo himself answered all the questions.

A grey horse seemed to spring from nowhere, and the look on the face of his rider was like nothing else any of them had ever seen. It was before that look that they cowered, rather than before the revolver in the outstretched hand. The horse went through the line as if no one were there, though one of its hoofs cracked the skull of a serjeant of Constabulary, who was standing, open-mouthed, in its course.

From first to last, it was a matter of seconds, twenty yards of open jungle at the outside, and both the grey and its rider were out of sight before the belated volley rattled harmlessly after them. They passed the word round the cordon, and the white officers sat down and mopped their foreheads, and wondered what Commissioner Furber would say. Then a thought struck one of them. “Where are those two spies of Furber’s? I wonder whether——” He did not finish the sentence, but took half a company and went to investigate for himself. After a while, he found them both, hanging from the branch of a tree, with the torn fragments of the banknotes which had been the price of their treason scattered over the ground beneath them.

The officer exchanged glances with his serjeant. “He has done it, single-handed,” he said in an awestruck voice.

The serjeant drew a deep breath. “It is ill work to betray Felizardo, Senor.”

Mr Commissioner Furber and the Presidente of Igut were sitting in the cool, nipa-thatched shack which served them as headquarters, waiting for news of the capture of Felizardo, when one of the half-dozen members of the Igut police, who were serving as escort, suddenly tumbled up the little ladder into the shack, and tried to hide himself in a corner. “There are bolomen,” he gasped. “They have taken the others prisoners.”

The Presidente of Igut sat rigid, apparently glued to his chair, staring through the doorway at a little man on a grey horse, who had just ridden into the clearing, followed by a score of bolomen; but Commissioner Furber stood up to face the danger, like a white man should. It was, in a sense, the supreme moment of his life, and the good blood which was in him proved stronger than the effects of the evil training he had been given.

He had left his revolver hanging on one of the posts of the little veranda, which was fortunate for him; otherwise, he would have started to shoot, and they would have had to kill him.

Felizardo brought his horse right up to the foot of the little ladder, and then he spoke. “You are the Senor Furber? Good! I am Felizardo. I was told you wished to see me, so I have come. What is it you would say, Senor?”

For the first time for many years, Commissioner Furber was at a loss for words. “I … you”—he stammered a little—“you are at war with the Government, and it is my duty to have you captured.”

The old man smiled. “But no, Senor. The Americanos make war on me, which is very different. I am the Chief of these mountains. All I wish is to be left alone, as I have said many times.”

Greatly to his own surprise, Mr Furber felt a keen desire to argue the point with this outlaw and Enemy of the Sovereign People. “It is impossible,” he said. “The whole island must be under our law.”

“There is only one law here,” the other retorted, “the Law of the Bolo. Will you carry that word back to Manila?” Furber flushed slightly; so his life was to be spared. “You are in my power. Your troops cannot be here for at least an hour, time enough in which to kill many men; but I will let you go, because, after all, I want peace. Will you take my message to your people?” And Mr Furber promised.

Felizardo beckoned to a couple of his men, then turned to the Commissioner again. “There is justice to be done, though, on the Presidente of Igut. He was in league with the band of Juan Vagas. Read that, Senor,” and he handed a letter to the white man, who, after having read it, looked very sternly at the trembling magistrate of Igut. Somehow, Mr Furber’s views had changed greatly during the last few minutes. He turned to Felizardo again. “I will deal with him, Senor, on my honour,” he said, and for a moment there was a spark of hope in the Presidente’s heart.

But Felizardo said: “He is my prisoner, Senor Furber. Besides, it will save time and trouble.” Then he nodded to his two men, who dragged the Presidente out of the shack. The shivering wretch caught hold of Furber’s leg as he was hauled past, but the Commissioner shook himself free, and went inside, so that he should not see what they were going to do.

It was, as Felizardo had predicted, an hour later when the first of the troops came back. Whilst the men were cutting down the body of the Presidente, the officer in command hurried to the shack, where he found the Commissioner sitting at the table with his head buried in his hands. He looked wearily up as the other came in.

“We have lost him, after all, sir,” the officer reported.

He had expected an outburst of wrath, but instead of that the Commissioner said, very quietly: “I know. Felizardo himself has been here to tell me.”