During the two months following Mr Gobbitt’s adventure, things were very quiet in the neighbourhood of Felizardo’s mountains. The old outlaw kept to his policy of trying to avoid trouble by acting strictly on the defensive; and, as neither Captain Bush nor Captain Hayle received orders to make an attack, during the whole of that time not a shot was fired in anger, and Captain Bush’s Scouts grew so fat and soft, and got so completely out of hand, that they were hardly fit to do even one day’s work in the field—unlike Hayle’s Constabulary at Silang, who had much less to eat and were given much more to do, which was good, both for them and for the service.

In Manila, however, neither Commissioner Furber nor the late members of the Provisional Government had forgotten Felizardo. The Commissioner was smarting over the failure of his plans. The ex-insurrecto generals and colonels had not forgiven the old chief, who, besides refusing help at a critical juncture, had also hanged ignominiously an envoy of the Sovereign People. Consequently, having the ear of the Commissioner, they lost no opportunity of relating the evil deeds of Felizardo; and when their imaginations failed them, they ascribed to him some of their own abominable doings during the rebellion. Mr Furber believed it all—were they not his Little Brown Brothers?—and he found an ally in Commissioner Gumpertz, who also had reason for feeling sore against Felizardo; but one or two of the other Commissioners shook their heads. “What harm does the old man do?” they asked. “As it is, we have to waste enough money on active ladrones, and a small war of this kind would not leave much balance”—which, being interpreted, meant “much to be divided amongst the faithful supporters of the Party.”

So Commissioner Furber had to give way, for a time at least; and the ex-generals and colonels gnashed their teeth with rage, for, in addition to the old scores, they had one or two new plans, the preliminaries to a fresh insurrection, which might be nipped in the bud if Felizardo came to hear of them, as he probably would do. So they put their heads together, smoking many cigarettes and drinking much spirit during secret conclaves in closely-shuttered old houses in the Walled City—which is the name for Old Manila—and at last they evolved a scheme which seemed to them excellent.

“It will set the Americanos against Felizardo,” they said. “Nothing enrages them so much as to have their women carried off. Then there will be a long and expensive war in the mountains, with the loss of many men; and our doings will not be noticed—until we are ready.”

So they appointed a committee, including, amongst others, Senor Guiterrez, Mr Furber’s secretary, and Senor Vagas, an assistant collector of Customs, brother-in-law to Chief Collector Sharler, and Senor Talibat, the judge; and, after that, they dispersed, in great good-humour, feeling sure that, before many months had passed, they would once more be wearing large red epaulettes and large red sashes, and trailing huge cavalry sabres behind them.

However, you cannot arrange matters of such grave national importance in a few days; consequently, weeks went by before anything could be attempted in the Islands themselves. There were funds to be collected and sent to other Brown Brothers in Hong Kong, who, after taking as much as they thought would not be noticed—patriots are never greedy—handed the balance to certain discreet Chinamen, wherewith to purchase certain articles, which, packed in small and convenient cases and crates, were presently put on board the German steamer Bertha Helwig and dispatched to Manila.

Chief Collector Sharler was a young man with a clean-shaven face, gold-rimmed spectacles, and ideas. It is the latter only which are really important so far as this story is concerned. His appearance certainly suited his theories; but had he been gross and sensual-looking like Mr Gumpertz, or lean and wolfish like Mr Furber, and still held those same theories, the result would have been the same.

The Chief Collector had come out from the United States full of ardour for the cause of the Filipino victims of Spanish tyranny. When I said he had ideas, perhaps I was wrong; certainly, I understated the case. He had obsessions, the chief of which was the doctrine of Racial Equality, which may be quite harmless when practised in a small American city, where there is no native problem, but becomes positively and actively dangerous when preached in the Tropics. Another obsession of his, a very strange one in the eyes of his colleagues, was his objection to all forms of corruption, a doctrine which is admirable everywhere, and practised in very few places.

Mr Sharler had not been in the Islands long before he showed his faith in the first of his theories by marrying a mestiza, the sister of Enrique Vagas, then one of the junior clerks in his office. It cannot be said that this practical demonstration of his principles was welcome, even to those other heads of the Civil Service who had been the loudest in their praise of the “Little Brown Brother” policy of the Governor-General. It made things awkward with their own wives, they said; whilst, as for the Army, orders were given to the porters of the Military Club that no one was to be permitted to bring Mr Sharler into the building again as a guest. The result of all this was that the Chief Collector went more and more into the society of his wife’s own people, and became more and more rabid on the subject of Racial Equality, discovering in his new relatives virtues which they themselves, even in their wildest moments, had never imagined they possessed—such as truthfulness, for instance.

The other white members of the Customs staff encouraged their Chief in his obsession, and all those who had not actually got their white wives on the spot went through forms of marriage with mestizas; moreover, the Chief’s earnestness on this question left him less time for translating his other theory, his objection to graft, into practice, so for a time things went very smoothly, and bank balances grew at a most pleasant rate. Then, one day, Enrique Vagas, having been soundly and deservedly kicked by an irate white chief assistant, suddenly remembered many instances of corruption, and straightway related them to his brother-in-law and superior officer. After the enquiry, there was a considerable number of vacancies, and what was more natural and fitting than that Enrique Vagas, and those other incorruptible Brown Brothers who had helped him track the offenders, should be promoted to the posts? From that time onwards, whatever the importers might say, matters went smoothly in the office. The Chief Collector heard not a single rumour of graft now, save from interested parties outside, and, so convinced was he of the integrity and loyalty of everybody, that more than once, at the suggestion of Vagas, he attempted to secure the withdrawal of those officious and useless military detectives who were detailed to watch for smuggled arms. But on that point he failed signally. “We have had some before,” the General answered curtly. “Good-morning.”

By a curious coincidence, the Bertha Helwig happened to arrive early on the morning of a public holiday. It was equally curious that Senor Vagas had arranged an outing for that day. One of the large Customs launches was to convey a party, of which the Chief Collector was to be a member, to a charming spot some fifteen miles away, where everybody would land and have lunch, and afterwards talk of Equality and the Rights of the People.

When the other guests assembled on the quay, they found Senor Vagas in the highest spirits. “Congratulate me,” he said. “My fiancÉe has returned on that steamer, the Bertha Helwig. We will fetch her, and some other friends of mine who are aboard, and take them with us.”

The Chief Collector beamed through his glasses. “It was a good idea,” he said, and ordered the launch to go alongside the German steamer. As they went out—the Bertha Helwig was some distance from the shore—they passed close to the police boat, whose captain, seeing the Chief Collector in the other craft, paid no more attention to her and her doings, as was but natural, and very convenient for Senor Vagas, who would have been watched had he been alone, and would have been stopped had he headed away up the bay when he left the Bertha Helwig.

As it was, there was plenty of time to transfer all those cases and crates, which the discreet Chinaman in Hong Kong had shipped, from the steamer to the launch, whilst the Chief Collector was in the little saloon, going through a series of introductions, and drinking the beer of the Fatherland with the skipper. By the time he came on deck again, everything had been stowed out of sight on the launch, which then made her way to the appointed landing place. The next transfer of those cases took place a couple of hours later, whilst the party was lunching in a charming little banana grove, about half a mile away. This transhipment, like the other, did not take long. Two large dug-outs appeared from out of what was apparently an impenetrable mangrove swamp, took the cases aboard, and in the space of a few minutes had vanished again down the narrow passage from which they had emerged. Later on, when their crews opened those cases and crates in the moonlight, they unpacked a hundred small-bore rifles, and many thousands of rounds of ammunition, a fact which goes to prove the statement that Mr Sharler’s views were a danger to the community.

Neither Basil Hayle nor Captain Bush had any system of Intelligence worth mentioning; and, as their official reports were the only source of information the authorities had, it follows that the latter knew as little, less perhaps, than they did of what was happening in that part of the Island. True, each of the officers did his best according to his lights—rather dim lights in the case of Captain Bush—but the results obtained were quite out of proportion to the trouble taken, because nineteen statements out of every twenty collected were untrue, and the twentieth was usually valueless. Practically every native in the district was in sympathy with the old insurrecto party, or else was one of Felizardo’s agents; consequently, it was absurd to blame either of the officers for not hearing of the landing of the guns, or for not being forewarned concerning the schemes of Senor Vagas and his fellow-patriots.

On the other hand, Felizardo heard about the guns, and sent fifty of his best bolomen to try and borrow them; but they were just too late, for when they reached the town of San Francisco, which is some fifteen miles inland from Igut, the weapons were already stored in the house of the Presidente, who was a former member of the Provisional Government, and a cousin of the wife of Chief Collector Sharler. Felizardo had forbidden his men to make an attack on any of the towns, so they were compelled to leave the guns alone; but they had a little compensation, for they came on two ex-members of the band, who had deserted to the insurrectos, and these they hanged during the night, on the great timber belfry in the middle of the plaza, facing the Presidente’s house.

Felizardo paid well for information, and he usually eliminated those who played him false; consequently, he was not long in obtaining an insight into the plans of the patriots. Men of his, who had been with him for years, said they had never before seen him so angry. Even Dolores Lasara was unable to calm him down. For half a day he sat alone, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and thinking out schemes of revenge; then suddenly he came back to the camp, apparently calm, and gave his orders. There were to be outposts all round San Francisco and its neighbourhood, and a chain of boudjon-blowers to pass any alarm back to the mountains, and another chain across the pass, up to Basil Hayle’s stockade at Silang, where the last man was to have a letter ready to deliver to the Constabulary officer as soon as he heard the warning notes on the horns. Then the old chief himself, with fifty of his best men, all of whom had rifles as well as bolos, shifted down to the outpost nearest to Igut, and waited patiently for the maturing of the scheme of Senor Vagas of the Customs, and Senor Guiterrez the secretary to Mr Furber, and Senor Talibat the judge, each of whom would probably have taken the first steamer to Hong Kong, had he known of the plans of this Enemy of the Sovereign People.

Basil Hayle was sitting in his quarters within the stockade, reading, when he caught the sound of a boudjon—faint, two miles away perhaps, but perfectly distinct. He put his book down quickly, and went out on to the platform of the stockade, where he found the Serjeant of the guard listening intently. A minute later, another boudjon sounded, very loud and clear, within a few hundred yards this time, evidently answering the other.

Basil and the Serjeant exchanged glances. This was the first hint of anything in the nature of hostilities they had received since Mr Gobbitt’s adventure with the head-hunters.

“Pretty close, that,” the Captain said.

The serjeant nodded. “Yes, Senor. But it does not mean an attack. They would not warn us beforehand in that way. Possibly, it means a message. We shall see.”

A quarter of an hour later, his prediction was justified, for a native, an ordinary tao by his dress, strolled up to the gate of the stockade, announced that he had a letter for the Senor in command of the Constabulario, delivered the envelope to the corporal of the guard, then, without another word, strolled back into the bush.

The corporal lingered a few moments, until the expression on Basil’s face told him what he wanted to know. “The cooks might hurry on the dinner,” he said, as he got back to the little guard-house; “we shall be going out. It was from Felizardo. I recognised the messenger. He was in the fight on the hillside.” And, having the first information, he set to work to borrow as many cigarettes as possible, so as to be well supplied for the march.

Basil read the note once, rapidly; then re-read it very carefully, and immediately made up his mind. It ran:—

“The Senor Felizardo, Chief of the Mountains, sends a greeting to the Chief of the Constabulario. This morning a band of a hundred men, all formerly of the foolish insurrecto army, started from the neighbourhood of San Francisco. At dawn to-morrow morning they will burn Igut. They wish it to be thought in Manila that the Senor Felizardo has done this thing, so that the Government will send an army against him, and, meanwhile, they will be able to prepare another rebellion, unobserved.

“If the Captain of the Constabulario marches quickly, he may take them in the rear. His stockade at Silang will be safe, on the word of Felizardo.

“They wish to kill all at Igut, save the Senora, who is promised to one Juan Vagas, the leader, brother to Enrique Vagas in the Customs.”

Then followed a brief supplementary note on the way in which the rifles had been introduced.

Basil Hayle did not hesitate. Had it been his first experience of Felizardo, he would have feared a trap. As it was, however, no suspicion of that kind entered his mind. All he thought about now was to be in time, to take those insurrectos in the rear, just as they were attacking, and himself to kill Juan Vagas. He was more like a wild beast than a man when he thought of what Felizardo really meant—but a dangerously quiet wild beast, one which means to kill. The Law of the Bolo had come into his life now, fully, absolutely displacing all other rules of conduct. There was to be no quarter this time, as he told the serjeant, who grinned in great appreciation.

In little over twenty minutes the column had started, leaving only five sick men in the stockade. So far as the latter was concerned, Basil trusted to Felizardo’s word. He could not spare enough men to defend it, so he decided, very wisely, to leave it undefended.

They wasted no time on the road, and before sundown they were across the pass, where they found a solitary boloman seated on a large rock, apparently awaiting them.

“I am the guide,” he said briefly. “There is a short cut. The ladrones passed down two hours ago.”

Most men would have called Basil Hayle a rash fool when he nodded and said: “Very well. Lead on;” but it was a question of taking risks, or of allowing the promise to Juan Vagas to be kept.

They halted once, and once only, during the night, and then it was at the suggestion of the guide. “We shall be in time,” he said; “the soldiers might rest a little.”

The men threw themselves down, and smoked and chattered in undertones about the great killing they were going to do; but Captain Basil Hayle stalked up and down, chewing fiercely on the end of his cigar.

After a while, the guide spoke again. “We should be going now. One thing first, though. Tell your soldiers that the ladrones all have rifles, and are dressed in blue, like Felizardo’s men usually are. Possibly, however, there will be bolomen dressed in white come out of the jungle to help you. Tell your men, so that they will know.”

The little soldiers grinned, understanding who those bolomen would be. “He, the old chief, might be there himself,” they whispered to one another. “Who knows? We might even see him.”

Half a mile from Igut, the guide brought them back into the main road. “They have passed already,” he said, pointing to the spoor.

They went on very cautiously then, for there was just the faintest hint of dawn in the east, and they knew it was only a question of a few minutes before the attack would begin; in fact, had the patriots been bolomen, it would have begun already, but it is different when you have rifles.

The enemy had no rear guard, partially because they had no thought of being attacked, partially because each man was so anxious for his share of the glory and of the loot. Consequently, Basil Hayle was quite close behind them when they entered the plaza and slew the sleeping Scout sentry—so close, in fact, that his men managed to get a most telling volley into the crowd of patriots bunched in the gateway of the barracks.

After that, it did not take very long. True, half a dozen Scouts were killed before the rest could awaken and start shooting; but the sudden attack from behind had paralysed the patriots, and, after the second volley from Hayle’s little men, they broke and fled. It was then that those bolomen in white appeared, seemingly from nowhere, at the corners of the plaza, and got to work quietly.

Basil Hayle stood in the middle of the plaza, repeating shot-gun in hand, wondering whether by any chance Juan Vagas had been trapped in the barracks. He had no orders to give his men—he had given the only one necessary immediately after the last volley—“No quarter”—and he knew that the fight, if fight it could be called, had passed clean out of his control. It was getting light now, and he looked round towards the Bushes’ house—the house he had saved—and saw a white-clad figure standing on the balcony, watching him.

Instantly, he forgot everything, even Juan Vagas, and ran across the plaza. Mrs Bush gripped the balcony to steady herself. “You!” she cried. “You! Thank God! What is it all? Oh, what is it?”

He told her in a few brief sentences. “I was only just in time,” he added.

They were still killing patriots at the lower end of the plaza, Constabulary and Felizardo’s men in white working together. She gave one glance in that direction, then covered her face.

“Who are those in white, and the man on the grey horse?”

It was light enough now to see fairly distinctly, and Basil realised at once who the little horseman, calmly smoking a cigarette, watching the killing, must be.

“It is Felizardo himself,” he said; then, thinking the other was looking, he raised his hand in salute. Instantly, the broad-brimmed hat was swept off in reply. Captain Hayle turned round quickly; they had seen one another now, as friends; and he must not know officially that the outlaw was there. When he looked round again, the killing was finished; the Constabulary were collecting together the weapons of the fallen; and both grey horse and white-clad bolomen had disappeared as suddenly as they had come.

“Captain Hayle, have you seen my husband?”

Basil started. “No, I never thought—Oh, there he is,” as the Scout officer came hurrying up one of the streets, accompanied by three more breathless white men.

Hayle went to meet them. “Mighty close shave, Captain,” he said.

Bush looked at him with wild eyes. “What is it all? What’s happened? What are you doing here? I was in the Treasurer’s—we had been playing cards late—when we heard the shooting, and saw the streets full of bolomen. I suppose this is Felizardo’s doing.”

“No, it isn’t,” Basil answered curtly; he had detected the lie. “It was the old insurrecto gang. If I had been ten minutes later they would have wiped out Igut;” and he gave the other a brief outline of what had occurred, omitting all mention of Felizardo.

Bush flushed. “I reckon my men would have put up a fight,” he said ungraciously, whereupon Basil turned on his heel and left him. Already, the serjeant had reported that, though there were five dead insurrectos in the barracks, there were six dead Scouts, not including the sentry; though the Constabulary had only lost one man, and Felizardo had lost none.

Whilst Bush was going up to the barracks, Basil glanced towards the balcony again; but Mrs Bush had disappeared. Still, he had the knowledge that he had saved her, and, what was better still, he had the memory of her grateful look.

Suddenly, it struck him that he was deadly weary. They had been marching since midday the previous day, and it was now about six in the morning, doing a forced march through jungle, without stopping to cook food. He leaned against the timbers of the belfry and beckoned to the serjeant, who was examining a small-bore rifle he had captured. “I don’t see the bugler anywhere, serjeant; but get the men together, and tell them all to pile their arms here and dismiss. They must be hungry and tired, and the Scouts can do the rest.”

The serjeant grinned. “We have left no ‘rest’ for them to do, Senor.”

It was not very dignified to be leaning against one of the posts of the belfry, so Basil tried to stand up erect, whilst waiting for his men; but the sudden relaxation of the strain had left him a little dazed, and, almost unconsciously, he sat down on the ground, with his shot-gun across his knees and his head forward. The thought which had kept him up so far, the memory of Mrs Bush’s look, had now been replaced by another, which drummed through his brain with maddening persistency—“Why had Bush himself been allowed to escape?” A stray shot, a chance slash with a bolo, and——

“Captain Hayle, what do you mean by this? Come into the house at once. You must be absolutely done up after that awful march from Silang.” Basil felt a hand laid gently on his shoulder, and scrambled to his feet at once.

“Mrs Bush! Oh, I’m all right, really, but tired, you know.” Even her touch had not quite cleared his mind yet, then, with an effort, he pulled himself together. “I am waiting for my men, and I am afraid I was almost asleep. No, I don’t think I will come in. Captain Bush seemed a little annoyed, you know.”

Mrs Bush looked him square in the eyes. “Captain Hayle, I ask whom I think fit into my house. You will come now. You know your men can look after themselves. I have already sent word to Ah Lung to let them have what they want. The Scouts can guard Igut—now.”

He followed her in without a word. First she brought him brandy and soda water; and then she glanced at his torn and muddy uniform, and his soaking boots, one of which was minus a heel.

“I like you in those,” she said suddenly. “They tell me—they tell me—many things. Only, you must change. I will put some other clothes in the spare room for you.”

When he came out again, dressed in a white suit of Captain Bush’s, she had some breakfast ready for him, but he could not touch it for sheer weariness; whereupon she made a couch for him on one of the long cane sofas in the drawing-room, and then she left him. Within a couple of minutes he was fast asleep. Mrs Bush opened the door quietly, looked in, went on tiptoe to his side, and, stooping down, kissed his hair lightly.

“I know you did it for me, dearest,” she murmured; then she went out, just as her husband came into the house, accompanied by the Treasurer and the Supervisor. They were talking loudly, and did not appear to notice Mrs Bush until she spoke. “Please be more quiet,” she said. “Captain Hayle is asleep in the drawing-room.”

The Treasurer and the Supervisor exchanged sheepish glances, but Bush flushed. “I never asked him in here.” Then he was sorry he had spoken, for her answer came, cutting like a lash: “I asked him. But for him, none of us would be asking any one anywhere now.”

“There were the Scouts——” her husband began, but she did not let him finish.

“The Scouts! And where was the Scout officer, and the other white heroes, who would have saved Igut?” She turned away scornfully and swept upstairs.

“I say, Bush, we had better get out; we aren’t exactly welcome. The Virginian seems to be first favourite.” The Supervisor was already moving towards the door, when Captain Bush stopped him.

“You stay here. This is my house, and if I want to ask you in for a drink, I will.”

But both the others declined. “We’d sooner not. She may come back. And the spirit shop’s open now.” So, in the end, Bush had to give way; and, instead of seeing to his wounded, and investigating the whole affair, sat drinking himself into a sodden state, and listening to the vile insinuations of his civilian friends. There was no gratitude to Basil Hayle for having saved the lives of all of them, only bitter jealousy and resentment, coupled with a little fear, at least on the part of the civil officials, who, on the occasion of his former visit, had heard his candid opinion concerning the lives they led.

Meanwhile, out on the plaza the serjeant and half a dozen men were keeping guard over four prisoners. The rest of the Constabulary were scattered. Some were still feeding in Ah Lung’s store, some were sitting in the shade of the belfry smoking, but most had drifted away in search of sleeping places. But the serjeant and his little guard remained, for they had received those four prisoners from no less a person than Felizardo himself, who had handed them over with the words: “Tell your captain these must be hanged.” And the serjeant, who had been in the Spanish Service, had saluted, and had taken his prizes to the plaza, and trussed them up securely, and then had sat down to wait until it should please his captain to reappear. He knew who those prisoners were. One was Juan Vagas himself, whilst the other three had been majors in the insurrecto army.

Presently there came along the Presidente and many tao, with carts drawn by water-buffalo, and started collecting the dead. Eighty-one they found out of the hundred who had come in—which, as the serjeant said, was a good killing. And when that task was finished the Presidente chanced to notice those four trussed-up prisoners beside the belfry, and came to inspect them; but when he saw their faces he seemed to shiver a little, and a quick glance passed between him and Juan Vagas. Then he spoke in the voice which had so often made the tao themselves shiver, and pay fines without asking for receipts.

“What are you doing with those men? If they are prisoners, why have you not handed them over to me, so that I can put them in gaol? I will send my police for them at once.”

But the serjeant cared for no Presidentes; moreover, he had seen that glance of recognition between Juan Vagas and the official. “These are the prisoners of the Constabulary,” he said. “They remain here until I receive orders from my captain.”

The Presidente used unofficial language. “I will send my police for them,” he retorted, and departed, storming.

When the serjeant saw a dozen or so ragged civil police approaching, he nodded to his men. “Load,” he said curtly, and the police halted forthwith.

Once more, the Presidente came forward; it was a matter of absolutely vital importance for him to get possession of those prisoners, even if, as was possible, they did happen to escape during the night. “Where is your captain?” he demanded.

The serjeant pointed with his revolver towards the Bushes’ house. “In there,” he said.

The Presidente bit his lip. He was not really anxious to meet Basil Hayle, and he was much less anxious to meet Mrs Bush; so, as a compromise, he went to the spirit shop to consult Captain Bush, who did not receive him cordially.

“What have I got to do with it?” the Scout growled. “I’m a soldier, not a forsaken police-man like Hayle. If I had taken them, I should have shot them out of hand, to save the trouble of hanging them. Are they friends or relatives of yours?” Usually he and the Presidente were on very good terms, but to-day his nerves were shaken. He knew he deserved, and might possibly get, his dismissal from the Service—that is, if Basil Hayle told the whole truth.

He had got to go to Basil Hayle and ask his forbearance—that was the most bitter thought of all. He was completely in the hands of this Constabulary officer, whom, perhaps, he hated more than any other man living. They could not blame him for not knowing that the attack was coming, but they could, and would, blame him for not being prepared for an attack; whilst, if they learnt that he had been one of the last men on the scene—— He made a grimace at the thought.

It was midday when Basil awakened, wondering at first where he could be; then, as he looked round, he remembered suddenly. A few minutes later Mrs Bush came in. “You look better now,” she said. “You were dreadfully tired this morning. You ought to have something to eat, though, before you go out. One of your serjeants has been asking for you; and I have been watching the Presidente stalking up and down in front of the house like a maniac.”

Basil shrugged his shoulders. “They can wait,” he said. “I really am hungry now.”

Whilst he was eating, he gave her a few more details of the night’s adventure. “It was Felizardo who really saved you,” he said, whereat she shook her head. “Yes, it was,” he went on. “But for him, I should still have been at that dreary hole, Silang.”

“Was it very dreary?” she asked.

He looked away. “Of course it was. I never hated a place so much in my life. You see——” He broke off suddenly, and for a few minutes there was silence; then he got up rather abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me now, I must see what the serjeant wants.”

As he went out, the Presidente stopped him.

“May I speak to you a moment, Captain?” the official began, but Basil cut him short.

“Yes, in a few minutes. I must see to my men first. I’ll come to your office, if you like.”

The serjeant grinned as he saluted. “I wanted to see you about those, Senor,” jerking his thumb in the direction of his prisoners. “I received them from—from the Chief of the Mountains himself. He said they must be hanged. One is Juan Vagas, and the other three are his chief lieutenants.”

Basil drew a quick breath. Juan Vagas! So he had him, after all. He strode over to them, and, when Juan Vagas saw the look in his face, he knew that there would be no escape this time.

The serjeant, who was standing beside Captain Hayle, nodded with a kind of grim satisfaction. “Doubtless they will rebuild the gallows at Calocan now, Senor. You do not remember the old ones on which they hanged Cinicio Dagujob and his friends many years ago, when I first came to this island from Samar. I was only a little boy then, but I can recall how this same Felizardo, who is now in the mountains, fought the ladrones behind old Don JosÉ’s warehouse, and how the old corporal of the Guardia Civil had to hurry on the hanging of those Felizardo had wounded. Without question, these ladrones here will meet Cinicio in purgatory, somewhere near the big fire.” Then he drew his officer to one side and spoke very gravely. “Senor, the Presidente has been trying to get the prisoners. I had to tell the men to load with ball cartridge. That Vagas is a friend of the Presidente’s, and if they got them into the gaol there would be an escape to-night.”

“I understand,” Basil nodded; he realised now that this attack on Igut was only a part of a widespread conspiracy against American rule, and the moment he had seen the prisoners he had decided himself to take them into Manila, and fight the question out there. “I understand, serjeant,” he repeated. “They are to be delivered to no one without my orders. Where is Serjeant Reyes? Tell him to get ten men and take the prisoners into that shed at the back of Ah Lung’s store. You and these other men had better go and get some rest now. I will see the Presidente myself.”

The Presidente was pacing up and down his room when Basil entered. The Constabulary officer wasted no words. “I hear you have demanded those prisoners, Senor. By what authority do you threaten my men?”

The official stuttered a little. “I—I represent the civil arm, Senor, and these—these ladrones should be lodged in gaol.”

Basil laughed in a rather disconcerting fashion. “I, too, represent the Civil Government,” he retorted; “and I am going to take those prisoners into Manila. I have heard of escapes from Igut Gaol.” His tone suddenly became severe, almost fierce. “Take care, Senor. Be very careful. I am inclined to carry you along with me as a prisoner too. Probably I shall come for you later, unless you can clear yourself meanwhile. And now you will send to the gaol for four sets of irons, and have them delivered, without delay, to Serjeant Reyes, in the shed at the back of Ah Lung’s store.”

The Presidente gave the order with shivering reluctance; then Basil seated himself at the table, in the official’s own chair. “Have you a return of the dead found this morning? Let me see it.” But the moment he set eyes on the document, he tore it across. “You head it ‘List of Felizardo’s brigands killed by the Town Police, the Scouts, and the Constabulary’!” he stormed. “How dare you! You know as well as I do that they were insurrectos, and nothing whatever to do with Felizardo. As for your Town Police and Scouts——” He laughed scornfully. “And now make me out a proper return and sign it.”

When, half an hour later, Captain Hayle took his leave, he left a sad and perspiring Presidente behind him, one who had reached the point of wondering whether it would not be wiser, after all, to retire to Hong Kong. In the end, however, the official decided to stay, mainly because he knew that the next coastguard steamer, that which was expected in during the course of the afternoon, would inevitably have as passengers Basil Hayle and Juan Vagas.

Basil went down to Ah Lung’s store and saw his prisoners safely ironed, then ordered from the Chinaman sufficient stores to last his men for three days, and sufficient cigarettes for a month, and after that sent for the old serjeant. “Serjeant,” he said, “I am going into Manila, taking Serjeant Reyes and ten men as guard for the prisoners. You will take command of the rest, and start at dawn for the stockade at Silang. Ah Lung will give you supplies for the journey. Also some cigarettes. Have the ‘Assembly’ sounded. I want to speak to the men.”

Perhaps it was not entirely by accident that they fell in opposite the Bushes’ house, though for that the old serjeant was responsible. Mrs Bush, sitting as usual on the balcony, behind the matting blind, could hear every word of his short speech, a little broken when he came to thank them for their loyal devotion of the night before, but ringing out clearly when he expressed his conviction that, during his absence, they would take every order the old serjeant gave as coming direct from himself. Two months previously, when they were just raw tao from Samar, they would have ended by breaking ranks and clustering round him; now there was nothing more than a murmur, which swept along the line, and was infinitely grateful both to him, and to the woman who, unknown to him, was listening from the balcony behind.

This time, there were no Scouts clustering in the gateway of the barracks, making disparaging remarks on “dam’ Constabulario.” They were all inside, wondering how they would explain matters to the girls of Igut. There was to be a fiesta, and, of course, a cock-fight on the following day, which meant that many questions, awkward to answer, would be asked.

As Basil dismissed his men, the expected coastguard steamer came in sight round the point, greatly to his relief. True, she would not go out until the morning, but, once his prisoners were aboard, he knew they would be safe. He waited on the quay until she had come to an anchor, then went off to her, calmly taking the Presidente’s own boat, and explained matters to her skipper. Half an hour later the Presidente, watching from his window, saw Juan Vagas and his comrades marched down to the quay, bundled, none too gently, into a boat, and taken aboard the coastguard. He drew his hand across his forehead, and found it damp with a cold sweat. If one of those four, young Pablo for instance, turned informer to save his own neck, how many other necks would be in danger?

After seeing his prisoners aboard, Basil walked back slowly to the Bushes’ house. He had to say good-bye to Mrs Bush, and, for all he knew, it might be many months before he saw her again. At the back of his mind there was still that haunting sense of resentment against Fate for allowing Bush to escape. The ethical side of the question, the morality or immorality of it, never occurred to him, as was but natural in a district where the Law of the Bolo was the only code which had any force. He hated the Scout officer because he knew what sort of man he was, and he would have welcomed Bush’s death, because he believed it would take a load of misery and humiliation off Mrs Bush’s shoulders; but, in justice to him, it must be said that he had never thought of gaining any personal advantage from the disappearance of the Captain. Mrs Bush had never given him any reason to suppose that she regarded him otherwise than as a chance acquaintance, whom the accidents of life, as represented by the insurrectos, had raised to the level of a friend.

Rather to his surprise, he met Bush himself at the doorway of the house; and, even more to his surprise, the Scout officer treated him with rather sheepish cordiality. “Come in, Hayle,” he said. “Glad you called back before you went. I hear you sent your prisoners aboard the coastguard. You’re a wise man. The Presidente wanted me to rescue them for him, and I told him to go somewhere hotter …. Have a drink? My wife will be down in a few minutes.” After he had mixed the cocktails and finished his at a gulp, he seemed to get a fresh grip on his own nerves. “I’m sorry if I was a bit short this morning,” he said, “but the thing upset me, the suddenness of it; and I thought at first that you might have sent me warning. Now, I hear that there was no time for anything of that sort. Eighteen hours from Silang, most of it in the darkness! It was a thundering good march.” For a moment, the soldier in him—and he had been a soldier of no mean quality—got the upper hand of his more recently-acquired personality. “I wish I had had the chance, and I wish I had been in the fight.” For a space he stared out through the window, then he faced round again. “Look here, Hayle, what are you going to tell them in Manila about me?”

Basil flushed. It was an awkward question, one not to be answered off-hand. Had he believed that Bush’s absence was due to anything in the nature of cowardice he would have spared him nothing; but, so far as that point was concerned, he had gauged the man accurately. Sober or drunk, Bush was brave enough. And the real reason was ugly, horribly ugly; moreover, if it came out, it would give the natives just cause for scoffing at the white man, and, what was of infinitely greater importance in his eyes, it would deal a deadly blow to Mrs Bush’s pride.

“I shall report what my men did,” he said at last, “and say that your Scouts were fully occupied with those who tried to rush the barracks. If they ask me concerning you, I shall merely say I had no time to speak to you until it was over. On the other hand, I want you to make a deal. If I do that for you, you are to say nothing of Felizardo being here.”

Captain Bush stared at him with wide-open eyes. “Felizardo! Felizardo here! What do you mean, man?”

“Felizardo was at the lower corner of the plaza this morning. It was he who sent word to me at Silang, his men who cut up the insurrectos as they fled. We’ve got to thank him, and no one else, that Igut wasn’t burned.” But Captain Hayle said nothing of Mrs Bush and the promise to Juan Vagas. He himself was going to see to the settling of that score.

Captain Bush mopped his forehead. “Old Felizardo himself here, in Igut!” he repeated; then a thought struck him. “Why didn’t he send me warning?” he demanded, with sudden suspicion.

Basil looked out of the window at the Presidente, who was just crossing the plaza. “If you had shown a sign of being prepared, the insurrectos would have become suspicious, and would not have come in. As it was, my fellows never entered into their calculations at all.”

The explanation satisfied Bush. “It sounds all right,” he began, then he was cut short by the entrance of Mrs Bush.

For a while, they talked on indifferent subjects, then Basil rose to leave. “I think I shall go aboard now,” he said—he had arranged for his men to spend the night in the Scout barracks. “I haven’t got over my long march yet, and the coastguard is sailing at dawn.”

Both Captain Bush and his wife accompanied their guest to the door. “We shall see you again?” Mrs Bush asked.

Basil nodded. “Yes, I am sure to call in here on my way back; and very possibly I shall go through to Silang this route. It is as short as the other way, through Catarman”—a statement which was not strictly true.

Mrs Bush smiled. “So it’s only au revoir?”

“Yes, only au revoir,” he answered ….

The coastguard steamer entered Manila, flying a signal for the police launch, which presently arrived in a great hurry. Basil went aboard her at once.

“I want to speak to you, Jimmy,” he said to the captain, who had been one of his fellow-non-commissioned officers in the Garrison Artillery. When they were in the little cabin, “Is there any special news in Manila?” he demanded.

“A story about a big fight at Igut,” the other responded promptly, “or rather a lot of stories. The first was that old Felizardo had burned the place, massacred every one, except the Scout officer’s wife, whom he had carried off. Now they say he was beaten, after all. Do you know anything?”

Captain Hayle smiled. “A little. It was my fight,” then, in the briefest terms, he outlined the story. “And now,” he added, “you had better get ashore ahead of us, and telephone up to have these fellows, Enrique Vagas and the others, watched right away. And tell them to send down a strong guard for my prisoners. I don’t want to march through the streets with every one staring at me; besides, my little chaps are in rags. We’ll give you half an hour’s start.”

It did not take long for the news to travel round Manila. Commissioner Furber heard it by telephone from the police, and was dumbfounded. “Do you think it can be true?” he asked of Senor Guiterrez, his secretary, who had gone deadly pale.

“Shall I go and find out more details? I might go down to the coastguard, and tell Captain Hayle to come up at once,” the secretary murmured, and, barely waiting for a reply, he hurried away, though not in the direction of the coastguard quay. He took a carromato, which is the local libel on a cab; but, on looking back, he saw that another carromato was following his. He told the driver to take a sharp turn into the Walled City, and found the other vehicle took the same turn; then, realising that the game was up, he took a very small revolver out of his hip-pocket, and shot himself dead.

Down at the Custom House, Senor Enrique Vagas heard the news, and suddenly discovered that he had left some papers aboard the Hong Kong mail steamer, which was just leaving. He slipped out of a side entrance, of the existence of which the detective, who had just arrived, did not know, got aboard the mail-boat unperceived, and from that point onwards he disappears from the story. Senor Simeon Talibat, the judge, heard the news, and merely smiled, knowing well that they dare not indict him.

Commissioner Furber was sitting very grim and silent when Basil Hayle was shown in. This was, without exception, the worst blow the Civil Government had received, and in the first outburst of bitterness he felt he would sooner that Igut had been destroyed, so that the blame could have fallen on Felizardo, rather than have had this exposure of the treachery of his Little Brown Brothers. Any sort of concealment was practically impossible now, in view of the suicide of his secretary, of which he had just heard. The whole city had heard of it too, and had put its own construction on it. Consequently, he did not feel kindly towards Captain Basil Hayle, and showed so by his manner. The wonderful forced march from Silang, over the pass to Igut, the sudden, paralysing attack, the relentless justice meted out to the insurrectos, were, he knew, things which would appeal to the mob; but they left him and his colleagues cold. They were contrary to the interests of the Party—and of themselves.

The interview with Basil was a brief one. Basil himself had come intending to say nothing of Felizardo’s intervention, feeling certain that, by mentioning it, he would only increase the bitterness against the old chief, and lay himself open to suspicion, which would result in his removal from the district. He had ample proof that it was the insurrectos who had made the attack—proofs, in the form of certain papers found on the prisoners, which he did not mention to the Commissioner.

“Make out a formal report, and let me have it as soon as possible,” the Commissioner said, after Basil had given him an outline of what had occurred.

Basil got up. “And the prisoners?” he asked.

“They will be brought to trial, of course,” the other snapped. “I presume you have good evidence.”

“We took them red-handed,” Basil answered grimly, and prepared to go out.

The Commissioner called him back for a parting shot. “How many did you kill?” he asked.

“We found eighty-one dead out of a hundred.”

“It is abominable!” Mr Furber’s voice shook with indignation. “You should have taken them prisoners. Probably, most of them were poor misguided peasants, who thought they were serving their country. You must have had a carnival of bloodshed. It is monstrous.”

Basil did not trouble whether the door banged behind him or no.

Half the non-official white population of Manila seemed to be out in the street waiting for him—the captain of the coastguard steamer had been talking freely, as had also the Constabulary soldiers—and Mr Commissioner Furber could hear the cheers, even after he had closed the windows of his office. When Clancy of the Manila Star, and Johnson of the Herald, and Hurd of the Record, ran Basil to earth in his hotel, he found that they knew as much, or more, of the story than he did—in fact he begged them to delete certain portions relating to himself; but one point he did ask them to emphasise—that, if successful, the raid would have been ascribed to Felizardo.

“Where did they get the guns?” Clancy asked suddenly. “They say they were all new small-bores.”

But Basil would not tell him. “Wait for the trial,” was all they could get from him.

When the trial came, however, that point, and a great many others as well, did not come out. Juan Vagas and his comrades were tried as ordinary ladrones. No reference was made to any political conspiracy, and the evidence was merely of a formal nature. It was a matter of common knowledge that tremendous efforts had been made to save the accused at any cost, on account of their family connections; but, though the Commission would have given way gladly enough, it dare not face the storm of indignation which would have been aroused amongst the white population. So, in the end, Juan Vagas and the three ex-majors were condemned to be hanged by the neck as common highway robbers—which they were not.

Still, the subterfuge did not prevent people from talking; because there were the suicide of Mr Furber’s secretary, and the disappearance of Chief Collector Sharler’s brother-in-law to be explained; also that matter of the smuggling of the rifles, and one or two other little things. But the Commissioners were true to the Party, and to themselves, all through. The Chief Collector continued collecting and preaching Racial Equality; Senor Simeon Talibat continued judging, and often sentencing, honourable men, some of whom were white; and the only unfortunate thing was that Vagas and his friends had to be hanged. Moreover, it had been hinted unmistakably that they must be hanged publicly, so that all men might be sure of their death.

It was over that execution that Commissioner Furber sought to have his revenge on Captain Basil Hayle for the trouble he had caused. “You brought them in. They are your prisoners. You shall have the hanging of them,” he snarled, looking to see the Virginian flush with rage. But therein he was disappointed, not knowing of the score against Juan Vagas.

“Where shall I have them hanged?” Basil asked calmly. “On the Luneta, in front of the band-stand? All Manila could see there.”

Again Mr Furber snarled. “Of course not. Take them out to Calocan; and do it very early one morning. I’ll leave it all to you, as you seem ready enough to do the job.”

Basil Hayle looked him squarely in the face, which was a thing the Commissioner himself never did to a man. “I would hang them, and a dozen more, some insurrectos, some white men who are traitors to their race, if I could,” he said very quietly. Then he went to Calocan, and arranged for the building of a new gallows on the site of the old one, opposite what had once been Don JosÉ Ramirez’s store, and was now the store of Lippmann and Klosky, American citizens.

No man except Basil Hayle and the prison officials knew where the prisoners were spending the night before the execution. As a matter of fact, however, they were on board a large launch, which was moored a mile from the shore, and the party of patriots, who were in ambush on the road, with the idea of rescuing their brethren, merely got wet and cramped as a reward for their devotion. Still, there was a crowd of two or three hundred on the plaza, of whom at least half were wearing bolos.

Basil’s total force consisted of his own ten men, with twenty more Manila Constabulary under a lieutenant, and even this reinforcement had been granted to him grudgingly.

“There are the local police,” the Commissioner had said, to which Basil had replied in practical fashion by taking all the rifles away from those police on the night previous to the execution. Still, despite this precaution, matters looked dangerous when they marched the prisoners ashore. They had roped in a space over night, and in that space Basil posted the Constabulary, in front of the new gallows, facing the crowd, and told them to load with ball, so that all men might be warned; but he noticed one, at least, of the Manila men slip in a blank cartridge, which made him feel more uneasy than ever.

“We’re in for it, properly,” he whispered to the lieutenant; then he went to the two ex-soldiers who had volunteered to act as hangman, the insurrectos having roasted some of their chums to death during the war. “Be as quick as you can,” he said. “And if we haven’t time to hang them, shoot them. I’ll take all responsibility.”

He had hardly spoken the words before he caught the flash of a bolo being drawn in the crowd. Vagas was then at the foot of the gallows, and Basil was by his side in a moment, pressing the muzzle of his revolver against his head. “Go up the ladder,” he said; then he saw another bolo being drawn, and another, and yet another. The crowd was swaying now. “Steady! steady!” he called to his men. “If they break the ropes or cut them, fire at once.”

Those in front, against the ropes, heard his words, and seeing the revolver at Juan Vagas’s head, tried to draw back, knowing that they would have been the sufferers from the one volley which the Constabulary could have hoped to get off. But those behind, the mass of the crowd, having no such fears, struggled and fought to get forward, or to force the others forward. There were a hundred drawn bolos now. A few seconds more, and the ropes would have been down, when a boudjon brayed out with startling suddenness from the line of bush which formed the top end of the little plaza, and, as men looked round in astonishment, they saw what seemed to be innumerable white-clad bolomen, jumping up out of the long grass into which they had crawled from the jungle, whilst, in the background, was a little old man on a grey horse.

Twice more the boudjon sounded, and then the word passed from man to man in the crowd. “Felizardo! Felizardo himself! He has sworn they shall be hanged, because of what they had planned to do.” Before the third blast had died away, every bolo had been sheathed, and every man was standing still, shivering a little.

Basil Hayle thrust his revolver into his holster again, and came back to his place in front of his men, where he stood very still whilst they did justice on Juan Vagas and his fellows. Then, when it was over, for the second time in his life, he raised his hand in salute to the little old man on the grey horse, and also for the second time Felizardo lifted his hat. A moment later the bush had swallowed up him and his men.

There were three reporters at the execution, and the copy they handed in rejoiced exceedingly the hearts of their respective editors. But Mr Commissioner Furber and Mr Commissioner Gumpertz and one or two other Commissioners used violent language. “The scoundrel’s impertinence must be stopped at once,” they said; whilst, in the Walled City, the ex-generals and colonels and majors of the patriot forces gnashed their teeth with fury, and began to evolve new schemes against Felizardo.