“Strange that one so well known should disappear. Yes, I have heard much of this boy’s loyalty and sagacity.” The two Moros turned quickly, warned by a startled look on the governor’s face. Far down the smooth shell road a figure was staggering, wavering toward them.
“Trouble, trouble,” muttered Findy.
The music ceased with a discordant jar, there was a slight stir among the spectators as Sicto and his companions attempted to retire, but to their surprise, Kali’s faithful men closed about them significantly. On came the figure, lithe, slim, and brown.
“Piang!” cried Kali Pandapatan, and instantly his eyes sought out the cowering Sicto.
The heavy, labored breathing became audible as the exhausted boy stumbled through the crowd. A sentry started forward to seize him, but the governor waved him aside. Dripping and panting, Piang staggered toward his chief.
“Juramentado—gobernador!” faintly whispered Piang.
A wild shriek crashed through the intense stillness; a green sarong was torn off, and the white-clad figure of a juramentado rushed at the governor. But Kali Pandapatan was quicker, and just as the assassin raised his barong, a slender kriss glistened in the moonlight and descended. The juramentado lay bathed in his own blood.
Jumping up to the platform, Kali Pandapatan raised his hands.
“My brother chiefs,” he cried, “did any of you know of this foul plot?”
“No, no!” came the quick response from every Moro, and although the Americans could not understand his words, they began to realize that Kali was exhorting his people to disclaim knowledge of the outrage.