"Kill me, eh? Not if you can't do a better job than you did the other night. Here, you reporter, ask Mr. Cable to explain the mystery of that affair on the lake front. Oh, I know all about it! You've started in to ruin me, but I'll be in on it myself. We'll have a general cleaning up."

"Father! What are you talking about?" cried Graydon, aghast.

"They haven't told you about the lake front, eh? I should think not! See him cringe!"

Cable had indeed fallen back against the wall, halfway up the steps, white and trembling. His eyes were raised, and he was the first to see Mrs. Cable as she came from her room.

"Go back!" he whispered hoarsely to her. She reached the banister and leaned over, her eyes filling with terror after a swift glance at Jane.

"Take Jane away," she murmured, realising that the blow was to fall.

"I'll stop his infernal tongue!" shouted Cable, leaping down the steps, his eyes blazing. James Bansemer laughed as he braced himself for the shock. They did not come together, for Graydon threw his big frame in the path of the assailant. For an instant there was a frightful uproar. Rigby and the servant rushed to the young man's assistance. The women were screaming with terror, the men were shouting and there was a. violent struggle which played havoc in the hallway.

"Call the police!" shouted Rigby.

"You infernal traitor!" hissed James Bansemer. "You claim to be Graydon's friend, and yet you are the one who has led the plot to ruin me."

"What does it all mean?" cried Graydon, holding; the shaking Cable tightly.

There was a moment of intense silence, except for thel heavy breathing of the men. Graydon was staring wide-eyed at his father. He saw the cruel, sardonic smile spread over his face and shuddered.

"I've simply come to take you out of the clutches of these people. I've waited to see if that scheming woman, up there would tell you of her own accord. She hasn't told you; so I will. You cannot marry that girl, for your haughty Jane Cable is a child of shame, picked up on a doorstep, cast off by the woman who conceived her!"

The crash had come. The heartless accuser stood like a tragic player in the centre of his stage, pouring out his poison without a touch of pity for the stricken girl who, after the first thrill of indignation and horror, had shrunk back into her mother's arms, bewildered.

"Call the police, if you like," laughed Bansemer, at the end of his tirade. "It isn't a criminal offence to tell the truth. It will sound just as well in court, Mr. Rigby."

"Jane, Jane," Mrs Cable was murmuring, "I might have saved you all this, but I couldn't—oh, I couldn't pay the price."

"You snake!" groaned Cable, weak and hoarse with rage. "Jane, he has lied! There is not a word of truth in what he says. I swear it to you."

"Ho, ho! By Heaven, she hasn't told you, after all!" cried Bansemer. "You still think she is yours!"

"Father!" exclaimed Graydon, standing straight before the other. David Cable had dropped limply into a chair, his hand to his heart. "I won't stand by and hear you any longer. Take back what you've said about her, or, damn you, I'll forget that you are my father and—-"

"Graydon!" exclaimed Bansemer, falling back, his expression changing like a flash. The smile of triumph left his face and his lip twitched. "You forget I—I am doing this for your sake. My God, boy, you don't understand. Don't turn from me to them. They have—-"

"That's enough, father! Don't say another word! You've talked like a madman. See! Look what you've done! Oh, Jane!" he caught sight of the girl on the landing and rushed up to her.

"Is it true, Graydon—is it true?" she wailed, beating her hands upon his arm.

"No! It can't be true! He's gone mad, dearest."

"Is it true, mother? Tell me, tell me!"

Frances Cable's white lips moved stiffly, but no sound came forth. Her eyes spoke the truth, however. The girl sank limp and helpless in Graydon's arms and knew no more. At the foot of the steps Rigby was pointing his trembling finger at James Bansemer.

"You'll pay for this to-morrow!" he was saying. "Your day has come! You cutthroat! You blackmailer!"

"Graydon!" called the father. "Come, let us go home. Come, boy!"

"Not now—not now," answered the son hoarsely. "I'll—I'll try to come home to-night, father. I'm not sure that I can. My place is here—with her."

Without a word James Bansemer turned and rushed out into the street, tears of rage and disappointment in his eyes. He had not expected the gall. Until the break of day he sat in his chill room waiting for the rasp of his son's night key—but Graydon did not come home.



CHAPTER XX

FATHER AND SON



Graydon sat with his chin in his hands, dull, stricken, crushed. He had heard the story of his father's baseness from Frances Cable, and he had been told the true story of Jane; from Rigby he learned of the vile transactions in which his father had dealt. At first, he could scarcely believe his own ears, but in the end lie saw that but—half the truth could be told.

It was past midnight when he left David Cable's, not to go to his own home, but to that of Elias Droom. He knew now that the newspapers would devote columns to the "sensation in high life"; he knew that Jane would suffer agonies untold, but he would not blame his father for that; he knew that arrest and disgrace hung over the tall grey man who had shown his true and amazing side at last; he knew that shame and humiliation were to be his own share in the division. Down somewhere in his aching heart he nourished the hope that Elias Droom could ease the pain of these wretched disclosures.

As he traversed the dark streets across town he was vaguely wondering whether Jane's eyes would ever lose the pained, hopeless expression he had last seen in them. He wondered whether she would retract her avowal that she could not be his wife with the shame upon her; he rejoiced in her tearless, lifeless promise to hold him in no fault for what had happened.

Distressed and miserable, he spent the remainder of the night in Elias Droom's squalid rooms, sitting before the little stove which his host replenished from time to time during the weary hours.

Droom answered his questions with a direct tenderness that surprised even himself. He kept much to himself, however, and advised the young man to reserve judgment until after he had heard his father's side of the story.

"I've been loyal to James Bansemer, Graydon, and I'll still be loyal to him. He's not done right by other people, but he has tried to do right by you."

"If he wanted to do right by me, why did he not tell me of Jane's misfortune?" exclaimed the young man bitterly.

"Because he really wanted you to marry her. She was born wrong, but anybody can see she is without a flaw. That's the truth, Graydon. Your father was wrong in his desire to make capital of it in connection with Mrs. Cable. I told him so. I don't believe he knew just what he was doing. He was so used to success, you see. Can't you go to sleep, boy? You need to."

"God, no!"

"I'd advise you to go home and talk it over with your father."

"To-morrow will be time enough. After the newspapers are out. I can't bear to think of the disgrace, Harbert has been interviewed, they say. He's told everything."

"Talk to your father to-night, my boy. There may be—may be warrants to-morrow."

The young man dropped his head on his arm and burst into tears. Old Droom puffed vigorously at his. pipe, his eyes shifting and uncomfortable. Twice he attempted to speak, and could not. In both instances he arose and poked the fire. At last the young man's choking sobs grew less violent. Droom cleared his throat with raucous emphasis, took his snaky gaze from a print on the wall representing "Dawn," and spoke:

"You wouldn't think it to look at me now—or any other time, for that matter—but I loved a woman once. A long time ago. She never knew it. I didn't expect her to love me. How could I? Don't cry, Graydon. You're not like I was. The girl you love loves you. Cheer up. If I were you I'd go ahead and make her my wife. She's good enough, I'll swear."

"She says she can't marry me. Good Heaven, Elias. you don't know what a blow it was to her. It almost killed her. And my own father—oh, it was terrible!"

Elias Droom did not tell him—nor had he ever told anyone but himself—that the woman he loved was the boy's mother. He loved her before and after she married James Bansemer. He never had faltered in his love and reverence for her.

Graydon waited in his rooms until the old man returned with the morning papers. As Droom placed them on the table beside him, he grinned cheerfully.

"Big headlines, eh? But these are not a circumstance to what they will be. These articles deal only with the great mystery concerning the birth of one of the 'most beautiful and popular young women in Chicago.' Wait—wait until the Bansemer smash comes to reinforce the story! Fine reading, eh!"

"Don't, Elias, for Heaven's sake, don't!" cried the young man. "Have you no soft spot in your heart? God, I believe you enjoy all this. Look! Look what it says about her! The whole shameful story of that scene last night! There was a reporter there when it happened."

Together they read the papers. Their comments varied. The young man writhed and groaned under the revelations that were going to the public; the old clerk chuckled and philosophised.

Every one of these papers prophesied other and more sensational developments before the day was over. It promised to be war to the knife between David Cable, president of the Pacific, Lakes & Atlantic, and the man Bansemer. In each interview with Cable he was quoted as saying emphatically that the adoption of Jane had been made with his knowledge and consent. The supposed daughter was the only one to whom the startling revelations were a surprise. There also was mention of the fact that the young woman had immediately broken her engagement with James Bansemer's son. There were pictures of the leading characters in the drama.

"I can't stay in Chicago after all this," exclaimed Graydon, springing to his feet, his hands clenched in despair. "To be pointed out and talked about! To be pitied and scorned! To see the degradation of my own father! I'll go—anywhere, just so it is away from Chicago."

Droom forgot his desire to scoff. His sardonic smile dwindled into a ludicrously, pathetic look of dismay. He begged the young man to think twice before he did anything "foolish." "In any event," he implored, "let me get you some breakfast, or at least, a cup of coffee."

In the end he helped Graydon into his coat and glided off down Wells Street after him. It was seven o'clock, and every corner newsstand glowered back at them with black frowns as they looked at the piles of papers. Two rough-looking men walking ahead of them were discussing the sensation in a lewd, brutal way. A saloon-keeper shouted to them: "It don't always happen over on de West Side, does it?"

Graydon went to the office of Clegg, Groll & Davidson early and arranged his affairs so that they could be taken up at once by another; and then, avoiding his fellow-workers as much as possible, presented himself to Mr. Clegg at ten o'clock. Without hesitation he announced his intention to give up his place in the office. All argument put forth by his old friend and employer went for naught. The cause of his action was not discussed, but it was understood.

"If you ever want to come back to us, Graydon, we will welcome you with open arms. It isn't as bad as you think."

"You don't understand, Mr. Clegg," was all that Graydon could say.

Then he hurried off to face his father.

James Bansemer, haggard from loss of sleep and from fury over the alienation of his son, together with the fear of what the day might bring, was pacing the floor of his private office. Droom had eased his mind but little in regard to his son. When he heard Graydon's voice in the outer room, his face brightened and he took several quick steps toward the door. He checked himself suddenly with the remembrance that his son had turned against him the night before, and his face hardened.

Graydon found him standing stern and unfriendly before the steam radiator in the darkest corner of the room, his hands behind his back. The young man plumped down heavily in his father's desk chair.

"Why didn't you come home last night?" demanded the other.

"I hated the thought of it," he answered dejectedly.

"You've listened to their side of the story. You're a splendid son, you are!" sneered the father.

"There is nothing base and unprincipled in their side of the story. They have tried to shield her; they have never harmed her. But you! Why, father, you've blighted her life forever. They were going to tell her in a day or so, and they could have made it easy for her. Not like this! Why, in Heaven's name, did you strike her like that? She's—she's the talk of the town. She's ostracised, that's what she is, and she's the best girl that ever lived."

"Oh, you think they would have told her, eh? No! They would have let her marry—-"

"Well, and what was your position? Why were you so considerate up to last night? If you knew, why did you let me go on so blindly? The truth is, father, if you must have it, you have acted like a damned scoundrel."

James Bansemer glared at his son with murder in his eyes.

"I wouldn't have believed the other things they say of you if I hadn't this to break down my faith. I heard this with my own ears. It was too contemptible to forget in a lifetime. I did not come here to discuss it with you. The thing is done. I came here to tell you that I am going to leave Chicago. You WON'T go, so I will." Bansemer still glared at him, but there was amazement mingling with rage in his eyes. "I can't look a soul in the face. I am ashamed to meet the Cables. Good Lord, I'm afraid even to think of Jane."

"I suppose you-you would marry her, like a fool, even now," muttered the father.

"Marry her? Of course I would. I love her more than ever. I'd give my life for her; I'd give my soul to ease the pain you have thrust upon her. But it's over between us. Don't let our affairs worry you. She has ended it. I don't blame her. How could she marry your son? Why, do you know that I have hoped that I might not be your son, after all? I almost prayed that my mother might have loved someone else instead of you. God, I'd like the pain of knowing that."

Bansemer leaned heavily against the radiator, gasping for breath. Then he staggered to the couch and dropped upon it, moaning.

"Graydon, Graydon! Don't say that! Don't! I'll make everything right. I'll try to undo it all! My boy, you are the only thing on earth I love. I've been heartless to all the rest of the world, but I love you. Don't turn against me."

The son stood looking at him in dull wonder. His heart was touched. He had not thought that this stern man could weep; he began to see the misery that was breaking him.

"Dad, don't do that," he said, starting toward him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you."

Bansemer leaped to his feet, his mood changing like a flash.

"I don't want your pity. I want your love and loyalty. I didn't mean to be weak. Will you leave Chicago with me? I must go. We'll go at once—anywhere, only together. We can escape if we start now. Come!"

"I won't go that way!" exclaimed Graydon. "Not like a criminal."

"No? You won't?" There was no answer. "Then, there's nothing more to say. Go! Leave me alone. I had prayed that you might not have been like this. Go! I have important business to attend to at once." He cast his gaze toward the drawer in which the pistol lay. "I don't expect to see you again. Take this message to the Cables. Say that I am the only living soul who knows the names of that girl's father and mother. God alone can drag them from me."

Graydon was silent, stunned, bewildered. His father was trembling before him, and he opened his lips to utter the question that meant so much if the answer came.

"Don't ask me!" cried Bansemer. "You would be the last I'd tell. Marry her, and be dammed!"

"I don't believe you know," cried Graydon.

"Ah, you think I'll tell you?" triumphantly.

"I don't want to know." He sat down, his moody gaze upon his father. Neither spoke for many minutes. Neither had the courage. James Bansemer finally started up with a quick look at the door. Droom was speaking to someone in the outer office.

"Go now," he said harshly; "I want to be alone."

"Father, are you—are you afraid of these charges?" His father laughed shortly and extended his hand to the young man.

"Don't worry about me. They can't down James Bansemer. You may leave Chicago; I'll stay! Goodbye, Graydon!"

"Good-bye, dad!"

They shook hands without flinching and the young man left the room. On the threshold the father called after him:

"Where do you expect to go?"

"I don't know!"

Droom was talking to a youth who held a notebook in his hand and who appeared frightened and embarrassed. Graydon shook hands with the old man. Droom followed him into the hall.

"If you ever need a friend, Graydon," he said in a low voice, "call on me. If I'm not in jail, I'll help you."

Half an hour later Graydon rang the Cables' doorbell.

"Miss Jane is not seeing anyone to-day, sir," said the servant.

"Say that I must see her," protested the young man, "I'm going away to-night."

"So is she, sir."

"Where?"

"I don't know, sir. California, more than likely. Mrs. Cable and she will be gone for some time."

"Did she tell you not to admit me?" he asked, white-faced and calm.

"Yes, sir. NOBODY, sir."

He turned down the steps and walked away.

That afternoon he enlisted, and the following morning was going westward with a party of recruits, bound eventually for service with the Regulars in the Philippines.



CHAPTER XXI

IN THE PHILIPPINES



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXII

THE CHASE OF PILAR



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That so? Did he ever come back?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ask him, Johnny."

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

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

"A pail of beer," said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXIII

THE FIGHT IN THE CONVENT



"Halt! Who goes there!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prisoners," was the sullen answer.

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

"Yes."

"Then why did you try to kill me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why did they leave you here?"

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

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

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

"How many men has Aguinaldo?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is the matter? Wounded?"

"It's nothing—merely a scratch."

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

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

Graydon, dumbfounded, stared in wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is your name?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But I am not your friend?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXIV

TERESA VELASQUEZ



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.



CHAPTER XXV

THE BEAUTIFUL NURSE



When the beautiful and mysterious nurse whose fame had gone up with the soldiers into Tilad Pass, arrived with others to take charge of the Red Cross hospital, on the day following the battle, she found the man she had been longing to see for many weary, heartsick months. She found him dying.

To the surprise of the enthralled command, she fell in a dead swoon when she looked upon the pallid face of Graydon Bansemer. She had gone eagerly from one pallet to another, coming upon his near the last. One glance was enough. His face had been in her mind for months—just as she was seeing it now; she had lived in the horror of finding him cold in death.

It was Teresa Velasquez who first understood. She knew that Bansemer's one woman had found him at last. Her heart leaped with hatred for one brief instant, then turned soft and contrite. If she had learned to care for the big American herself during the hard days when he had been so tender, she also had learned that her worship was hopeless. She had felt his yearning love for another; now she was looking upon that other. While the attendants were bending over their unconscious companion, the Spanish girl stood guard over the man who had been her guardian, the man whose life was going out before her miserable, exhausted eyes.

Jane Cable stirred with returning life; Teresa was quick to see that words not medicine would act as the restorative. She went swiftly to the American girl's side and, clasping her hands, cried sharply into her half conscious ears:

"He is not dead! He is alive! He needs you!"

The effect was magical. Life leaped into Jane's eyes, vigour into her body. She recovered from the swoon as mysteriously as she had succumbed to it. Her sudden breakdown had puzzled her companions. It is true that she was new in the service; she had seen but little of death and suffering; but, with all that, she was known to possess remarkable strength of purpose and fortitude. That she should collapse almost at the outset of her opportunities was the source of wonder and no little contempt among her fellow workers. The words of the strange girl in men's clothing opened the way to smart surmises. It was not long before everyone in the command knew that the "beautiful Red Cross nurse" was not wearing the garb of the vocation for the sake of humanity alone—in fact, it was soon understood that she did not care a straw for the rest of mankind so long as Graydon Bansemer needed her ministrations.

Ignoring the principles of the cause she served, she implored the doctors to confine their efforts to one man among all of them who suffered; she pleaded and stormed in turn, finally offering fabulous bribes in support of her demands. For the time being, she was half crazed with fear and dread, woefully unworthy of her station, partially divorced from reason.

The more desperately wounded were left in the village with an adequate guard, the rest of the command departing with Major March. A temporary hospital was established in the convent. There were two doctors and four or five nurses, with a dozen soldiers under command of Lieutenant Bray. It was while the apparently dead Bansemer was being moved to the improvised hospital that Jane presented herself, distraught with fear, to the young Southerner who had so plainly shown his love for her. She pleaded with him to start at once for Manila with the wounded, supporting her extraordinary request with the opinion that they could not receive proper care from the two young surgeons. Bray was surprised and distressed; he could not misunderstand her motive.

He had gone on caring for her without suspecting that there was or had been another man; she had not confided in him during those weary, pleasant months since they left San Francisco behind them. To learn the true situation so suddenly and unexpectedly stunned his sensibilities; he found difficulty in grasping the importance of the change an hour or two had made. He had fought valiantly, even exultantly, in the Pass that morning, her face ever before him, her words of praise the best spoils of the victory, should they win. He had come down to the village with joy and confidence in his heart, only to find that he was not, and could never be, anything to her, while the life or memory of this fallen comrade stood as a barrier.

Bray's hour following the discovery that she had deliberately sought out and found this stricken private was the most bitter in his life. His pride suffered a shock that appalled him; his unconscious egotism, born of hereditary conquests, revolted against the thought that his progress toward her heart was to be turned aside by the intervention of a common soldier in the ranks. Gentleman though he was, he could not subdue the feeling of exultation that came over him when she approached with her plea. He knew that it was a base sense of power that made him feel that he could punish his pride's offender by either denying or granting her appeal. The attitude of self-sacrifice appealed to his wounded vanity; he was tempted to profit by an exhibition of his own pain and generosity.

He went with her into the convent and to the pallet on which was stretched the long, still figure of Graydon Bansemer. A surgeon was standing near by, studying the grey face with thoughtful eyes. Bray's first glance at the suffering face sent a thrill of encouragement through his veins. The man was beyond all human help; the grip of death was already upon his heart.

Then, the true manhood that had been his, through all generations, revolted against the thought that was in his mind. The man should not die if it was in his power to prevent; no matter what the cost to him, he would give his aid to her and hers. He tried to put aside the feeling that death was certain—and very soon, at that; he sought honestly to justify himself in the hope that Bansemer's life could be saved, after all.

"Leave me alone with the doctor, Miss Cable," he said. She was kneeling beside the man on the cot. Without a word, but with a dark appealing look into the Virginian's eyes, she arose and went swiftly away. "What chance has this poor fellow, doctor?"

"None whatever, sir. He'll be dead in an hour. I'm sorry, on her account. Strange case. I've heard she belongs to a fine family in the East. Poor devil, he's got an awful hole in his side."

"Have you made a careful examination? Is it possible that no vital spot has been touched?"

"We haven't had time for a thorough examination; it was better not to waste the time on him when there were others whom we have a chance to save."

"You will oblige me, doctor, by giving him the quickest and most careful attention. There may be a chance. He is one of the bravest men in the army. Don't let him die if there is a chance for him. Miss—er—the nurse—has asked if he can be moved to-day."

"No. But wait; I don't see why, if it will satisfy her. He will die anyhow, so why not tell her that we will start south with him to-morrow?"

"It isn't fair. She should be told the truth."

"He'd die, that's all—any way you put it."

"You will make the examination?"

"Yes, in—at once."

"But you—you feel that it is hopeless?"

"Certainly, sir."

"I'm-I'm sorry," said Bray, walking away. The doctor looked after him with a queer expression in his eyes and then called his confrere to the pallet.

Bray found Jane waiting for him outside the door; Teresa Velasquez was standing beside her, holding her hand.

"What does he say?" cried Jane, grey with anguish.

"He cannot be moved. There is no—but little hope, Miss Cable. They are to make another examination."

"He must be saved! He must! Let me go to him now. I will help. I will give my life to save his," she cried. Bray stood between her and the door, his arms extended.

"Don't go in now, I implore. Wait! There may be good news."

"He is everything in the world to me!" she moaned.

"Come with me," whispered Teresa. Bray looked at the Spanish girl, and a new light broke in upon his understanding. What was this refugee to Bansemer? The answer shot into his brain like a flash and he turned cold.

"Miss Cable, I think I understand your anxiety," he said, his voice trembling. "Won't you let this young lady take you away for half an hour or—-"

"But I am a nurse! Why should I be kept from him? I am here to care for all of them," she protested.

"You are not fit to do duty just now," he said. "Miss Cable, I understand why you are here. It is noble of you. I am truly sorry that there is so little hope." He was leading her away from the building, leaving Teresa standing there with her eyes fastened upon the door with a look that could not be mistaken. "I would give my own life to have his spared for your sake, Jane. Forgive me. I would willingly give all I have in life for you. But I am afraid it is impossible to save him."

"Don't say that," she whispered.

"You—you would be his wife?" he asked.

"No, that cannot be. I COULD not be his wife."

"You mean—he is married?"

"No, no! not that. You can't understand. I can never marry him—never!"

Bray struggled for a moment with the puzzle; his eyes went slowly to Teresa. Then he suddenly understood why Jane Cable would not marry the man she had come to find. He asked no questions of himself, but Teresa would have been the result of every conjecture had he done so.

"He might better be dead," he thought, his eyes hardening. "She's found him out. Gad, I hope—-" but he put it from him.

Graydon Bansemer did not die within the hour, nor that day. The careful examination of the surgeons gave little additional hope; it did, however, reveal the fact that no vital organ had been destroyed or injured. The ball had torn a great hole in his left side and had gone through the body. Probing was not necessary. The flow of blood was frightful. There was a spark of life left on which to build a frail hope, and they worked with new interest.

The attention of everyone was directed to this tragic struggle; the efforts of all were lent to the successful end. Jane Cable, dogged and tireless, came to be his nurse, now that the life thread still held together. It is not the purpose of this narrative to dwell upon the wretched, harrowing scenes and incidents of the wilderness hospital. The misery of those who watched and waited for death; the dread and suffering of those who gave this anxiety; the glow of spiritual light which hovered above the forms of men who had forgotten their God until now.

The first night passed. There were sleepless eyes to keep company with the faint moans and the scent of chloroform. Over the figure of Graydon Bansemer hung the eager, tense face of Jane Cable. Her will and mind were raised against the hand of death; down in her soul she was crying! "You shall not die!" and he was living, living on in spite of death. The still, white face gave back no sign of life; a faint pulse and an almost imperceptible respiration told of the unbroken thread. Hoping against hope!

Dawn came, and night again, and still the almost breathless girl urged her will against the inevitable. She had not slept, nor had she eaten of the food they brought to her. Two persons, a soldier and a girl, stood back and marvelled at her endurance and devotion; the harassed surgeons, new in experience themselves, found time to minister to the seeming dead man, their interest not only attracted by his remarkable vitality but by the romance attached to his hope of living.

That night he moved, and a low moan came from his lips. The Goddess of Good Luck had turned her face from the rest of the world for a brief instant to smile upon this isolated supplicant for favour. Jane's eyes and ears had served her well at last; she caught the change in him and her will grasped the hope with more dogged tenacity than before. The word went out that there was a chance for him. Her vigil ended when Bray came to lead her away—ended because she dropped from exhaustion.

The next morning, after a dead sleep of hours, she returned to his side. The surgeon smiled and the nurse clasped her hands with tears in her eyes. Bansemer was breathing thickly and tossing in delirum. It was as if he had been lifted from the grave.

Lieutenant Bray was seated in front of the convent late that evening, moodily studying his own emotions. Teresa, still attired as she had been for weeks, hung about the chapel with the persistance of a friendless dog. He watched her and pitied her, even as he pitied himself for the wound he was nursing. What was to become of her? He called her to him.