As we know, the scene in the tent was a short one, and soon they saw Larry come out again, and saw him tied to the tree. The two soldiers detailed to guard him sat on either side of their prisoner, on rocks about six or eight yards from the tree.
“He seems to be the only prisoner in the camp,” whispered Ben. “I wonder if I can’t crawl up and cut him loose. I did that once for Gilbert Pennington.”
“No, no!” interposed Boxer. “Those guards are wide awake and will shoot you in a minute. Wait till it gets darker—we may get a chance to do something then.”
Slowly the minutes drifted by, Ben watching 297 Larry every instant. He saw that his younger brother was exceedingly tired and held one foot up as if in pain. The young sailor had asked if he might not lie down, but this comfort had been denied him.
Both of the guards were puffing vigorously on their cigarettes, when one chanced to throw down a lighted match close to the rock upon which he was sitting. It set fire to some dry grass, but instead of putting it out, the guard watched the tiny conflagration grow stronger.
“Playing with fire, eh?” said his mate, lightly.
“Yes,” was the slow answer. “How I would like to see Manila go up like that!”
“Yes, I would like to see that, too, Carlos, and the Americans in the flames. Ah, but the day when we are to take the capital seems a long way off now.”
“Never mind; Aguinaldo says he is soon to have reënforcements from the south. When they come, let the American dogs beware!”
The talk was carried on in the Tagalog dialect, so Larry understood not a word. In the meantime, the fire crept up, making the guard’s seat anything but comfortable.