Great was the disappointment of Major March and his men when they found that neither Aguinaldo nor Pilar had fallen into their hands. Although they had come just in time to prevent the complete annihilation of the little company, the leaders had escaped with the remnant of their surprised forces. Scores of Filipinos were captured, dozens were killed and wounded. Eight of the dashing scouts who went out with Jerry Connell gave up their lives in exchange for the final victory.

A small guard was left at the convent to care for the wounded, the bulk of the command hurrying off at dawn to search for the routed Filipinos. Graydon Bansemer was put in charge of the convent guard. A surgeon and the application of "first aid to the injured" principles soon transformed the convent into a well arranged hospital. Uncle Sam's benevolence was also cheerfully extended to the wounded Filipinos. The days of the "water cure" and "ungodly butchery" had not yet come.

Young Velasquez died soon after daybreak. He had been dying for days. His sister's grief was pathetic in the extreme—aye, demoralising, for it struck deep into the hearts of soldiers who had scoffed at the life-blood of man, but could not brave the tears of a woman.

Bansemer did all in his power to comfort and console her. It was to him that she clung in her despair. He had been her captor; and yet it had been he who stood forth in his might to defend her and the loved one who was dead. At nightfall the dead were buried in that far-off wilderness, their humble graves marked and recorded before the time when the government could come to give other graves in other lands to these who had given their lives. Velasquez was laid beside the Americans. Teresa, a shivering, sobbing little figure in the garb of an insurgent soldier, was supported by big Graydon Bansemer. There was no service except the short army ritual; there was no priest or pastor; there was but one real mourner—a pretty, heart-broken girl who lay for hours beside the rude mound on the hillside.

Word came back at nightfall that the detachments were to form a junction at one of the big villages westward in two days. The instructions were that the wounded Filipinos should be left in the village, where native women and doctors would care for them.

"What in thunder are we to do with the girl?" was the question that came from the officer in command. More than one man scratched his head thoughtfully and looked toward the disturbing element that had come into the army. She was sitting alone and disconsolate in front of the church.

"There's no way to send her back to her friends, and we can't leave her here," said Bansemer.

"But, gee whiz, we can't take her on a hike like this," protested the sergeant. "She'll be in the way, and she'll give out, and all that. Besides, what would we do with a woman around all the time?"

"I fancy she can hike all right," said Graydon. "Major March wouldn't expect us to leave her behind. That would be heartless."

By the time the party and guides was ready to start on its forced march, the opinion, unanimously expressed was that Teresa Velasquez should go forward also, come what might. She had pleaded so hard and so effectually that the men were fairly swept off their feet in a storm of sympathy.

"If she gives out we'll carry her," roared a deeply impressed young man with long red whiskers.

"And when we get up to the command we'll make them derned correspondents take turn about walkin', so she can ride a pony all the time. They've got no business ridin', anyhow."

And so with rosy confidence in the fitness of things and a just belief in the charity of Major March, the detachment marched out into the hills, the ward of the company trudging bravely beside the tall and envied Mr. Bansemer—who, by the way, aside from being politely attentive, did not exhibit any undue signs of exaltation.

The presence of a woman—and a very pretty one at that, with a sadness in her eyes that was appealing—served only to send his thoughts bounding back to the girl he had left behind. He grew more and more morose and silent as the day wore on; at times the tired, lonely girl at his side lagged and cast wondering, piteous glances at him. Her woman's intuition told her that this man did not belong where he was; it told her also that he had a secret and that one of her sex was deeply involved.

The events of the next two weeks are of small consequence in this narrative, which deals not so much with the history and mystery of the campaign in the fall of '99 as with the welfare and emotions of a single soldier at the front. Aguinaldo and Pilar had become refugees by this time, hunted and hounded from place to place with relentless fervour. Pilar was somewhere in the hills with his men, the pride of the insurgent forces; Aguinaldo's remnant had scurried off in another direction, and General Tono was on the coast with what was left of the scattered force.

The net about Gregorio del Pilar was being drawn in and tightened. The closing week in November saw him driven to the last extremity. The tragedy of Tilad Pass was near at hand.

Teresa Velasquez never faltered, never tired. She proved herself to be no incumbrance. Day after day, the officer in command expected the expedition which would take her back to Manila; forces came up from the south, but none were ready to go back.

She was an inspiration to the camp. Men who had forgotten their manners completely brushed them up and danced attendance upon the girl in the Filipino uniform.

Every man prayed for opportunity to do brave deeds, and when chance came she was permitted to witness heroism that savoured of the boyhood malady known as "showing off."

The reserved, but considerate Bansemer was her closest friend and confidant. One evening, as they sat side by side watching the preparations for supper, she turned suddenly and announced that she knew he was dying of love for someone. He started and his hand trembled.

"Tell me about her," she commanded. There was a piquancy, a gay impelling force in this girl that grief and hardship had not been strong enough to conquer. Her hours of sadness were spent alone—hours when she was supposed to sleep, but instead, lay awake and sobbed without tears.

"Nonsense!" said Graydon. "Why do you think that of me?"

"Because everybody else thinks it," she said; "and because I am a very wise person. The men are not so charitable as I, senor. They say that you joined the army because of some woman whom you could not marry. I agree with them, except that it is she who would not marry you. Forgive me, if I have hurt you."

Impulsively, she put her hand upon his, her dark eyes full of pleading. The touch of her hand did not send a thrill through him; such contact, however, caused the blood to tingle in the quick veins of the girl. He merely sat and stared into space. After a moment, she drew her hand away.

"I am sorry," she said.

"There is a girl, Teresa," he said shortly.

"Yes, I know. Tell me about her."

"I can't," he exclaimed, bitterly. He arose and walked quickly away. Teresa's dark eyes followed him in pity and wonder, aye, affection. Then she shook her head sadly and turned her attention elsewhere—not piqued, much to her own amazement.

Reinforcements came up two days later with the word that the commander in chief expected the campaign against Pilar to end within a week, and that hard fighting was ahead. The Red Cross people were following hard upon the heels of the regiment and field hospitals were to be established. This information was so suggestive of fierce and final combat that the men felt their sluggish blood leap wildly into life.

Every man in the band of newcomers was singing the praises of a wonderfully beautiful Red Cross nurse. The stories told of her charms were varied, but none lacked enthusiasm. Some said she was the daughter of a rich magnate come to do service in the cause of humanity; others were sure she was a great and beautiful actress who was sacrificing everything to conspicuous advertising. All, however, were agreed in the praise of her noble beauty.

The little detachment on guard turned up its collective nose and proudly pointed to Teresa Velasquez.

"Look at that," said Bob Spurrier. "Can she stack up with the hiking queen? Our girl is real quality. She's no common American. She's a grandee's daughter. There's royal blood in her. By thunder, gentlemen, she's blood kin to little Alfonso."

Teresa sought shelter from the curious though admiring eyes of the fresh arrivals.

"I don't like these new soldiers," she complained to Graydon. "I wish they had not come. They talk of this beautiful nurse and they laugh at me. Oh, I wish I had something else to wear."

"Don't worry, little girl, you're worth ten nurses," said he.

"Alas, though I am dressed as a man, I do not feel as bold as one," she lamented.

The next day reinforcements came up and the whole command advanced upon Tilad Pass, where Pilar, at last, had been cornered. On the second of December a desperate conflict took place. Pilar was intrenched in the Pass near the celebrated rock known as El Obispo—"the Bishop." His resistance for a time was valorous and deadly. Corporal Parry saw him mount his horse behind the barricade, six hundred yards away. Parry was the best marksman in the regiment, and turning to his chief officer, asked if he should take a shot at him.

He fired and Pilar fell, face downward; and the Americans crushed the little band of insurgents. Gregorio Del Pilar was dead. His death in the great hills, after a most courageous battle against an overwhelming force, brought to an end a life that would have been worth much to the islands in after years. In his pockets were found valuable papers, letters and keepsakes. The letters were from his sweetheart, Dolores Jose, who lived at Dagupan, and they were tender in the extreme. Her lace handkerchief rested over his heart.

When the Americans, victorious and jubilant, fell back to camp, they had no small number of wounded to turn over to the tender mercies of the little company of Red Cross nurses and the surgeons.

One of the most dangerously injured was Graydon Bansemer. He was one of the first to cross the danger line; a Mauser ball from a distant hill tore through his side, leaving an ugly gaping wound that foretold certain death.