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

It was well after midnight when Basil left the Club in the company of old Major John Flint of the Infantry. They were both staying at the same hotel, and their way back led through the narrow streets of the Walled City, and thence across the Bridge of Spain, into the newer part of Manila. They passed one or two native police slouching along, looking what they really were, more like thieves than thief-takers. With the exception of these, however, the streets seemed to be absolutely deserted; consequently, when, from out of a [181]dark gateway, a couple of natives, or rather mestizos, armed with knives, sprang at Basil and his companion, the white men were taken absolutely unawares.

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

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

“I have killed the one, Sahib,” the watchman [182]said. “Shall I——?” he nodded expressively towards the other would-be murderer, who, hearing the words, squirmed.

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

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

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

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

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, “what’s this? You’ve [183]got it in the hand, major; and you seem to have got it in the ribs, Hayle,” pointing to a wet, dull red patch on Basil’s tunic.

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

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

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

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

A few minutes later the police came along, [184]three natives, and took over the prisoner with an air of surly indifference to the whole matter. Even the sight of the Constabulary officer’s uniform was insufficient to make them outwardly civil and respectful. As they were moving off, Basil caught the word “hangman,” and flushed crimson. Then he called them back.

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

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

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

Basil understood. “Has he got away?”

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

“Who was he?” Basil asked.

The captain mentioned the name of a well-known [185]mestizo planter. “His youngest son, just back from London, where they seem to allow any fool-doctrine to be taught to coloured men. Pity the Sikh didn’t finish him too whilst he was about it.”

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

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

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

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

The police captain nodded. “I’ve just seen him, and, as a favour to the force, he is going [186]to forget it. But he wouldn’t have done so for Furber; no, sir. Awkward sort of an Irishman, unless you handle him right. They’d have deported him long ago, if he had been an American citizen. Well, so-long, Captain. I’d be careful, if I were you, at nights. You might have a worse accident next time.”

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

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

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

It was one of Mr Commissioner Furber’s customs never to look a man in the face; consequently, [187]he missed Basil’s expression, though, perhaps, the way in which Basil strode out of the room may have told him something.

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

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

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

Basil heard the same news as he was going [188]aboard the coastguard steamer, and laughed grimly. “A bit futile, isn’t it?” he remarked to his informant. “They had served their purpose already.”

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

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

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

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

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

Basil was staring out of the window. “I can’t explain now; perhaps I will, some day, later on.” And with that she had to be content for the moment, though, by dint of questioning her maid, who in turn questioned others in the town, she got some clue to the truth a few [189]days later, and found much food for thought therein. She began to understand what had kept Basil going through that terrible march from Silang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For an instant Basil thought of saying nothing, [190]of letting the other go to his fate; then he remembered that, though Bush might be a man he loathed, Bush was also, and above all things, an officer in the service of the United States, so he spoke very gravely. “I have been up there, Bush, and I know what it means. Two companies of Scouts are utterly useless for the job. You will be able to do practically nothing, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t get cut to pieces as soon as you are well into the jungle. It is sheer lunacy sending you up.”

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

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

Basil Hayle found the stockade at Silang in perfect order. The five sick men he had left in it when he made the forced march to Igut were all well again, and back at duty. No [191]one had interfered with them during the days when they had formed the sole garrison; rather otherwise, in fact, for a party of Felizardo’s men had actually come down and made a camp a few hundred yards away, thus preventing any possibility of attack from a wandering band of ladrones, or from those abominable head-hunters. For the first few hours, the five had been distinctly alarmed, then some of the outlaws had come forward and explained matters. After that, everything had gone very smoothly. Felizardo’s men had plenty of fresh meat, the Constabulary had some especially choice cigarettes; consequently, it was no difficult matter to do a deal. On the second morning, three of the soldiers were actually guests in the outlaws’ camp, but a return invitation was declined. The chief had given definite orders on that point. Then, suddenly, there had come the news of the killing at Igut—wonderful, splendid news, which had made the five rejoice greatly one moment, and the next moment gnash their teeth with envy of their comrades who had been in the fight. The fact that they, themselves, must inevitably have fallen out long before the column had reached the head of the pass was entirely forgotten. Half an hour before the serjeant and the other men had returned, a boudjon had sounded a mile or so away, and when, a few minutes later, one of the five had glanced towards the outlaws’ camp, [192]not a trace of Felizardo’s men was to be seen. Their special mission was concluded.

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

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

“Vigne’s Scouts haven’t turned up yet at Igut,” was all that Stott could report, whereat Basil had raged, knowing that every day of delay must make disaster more certain. Then [193]suddenly a messenger had come in from Catarman, bringing news, not only of the starting of the expedition, but also of its return?….

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

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