"Not unless the rascals are reinforced," replied Prescott. "There is no telling how many of the natives are concerned in this uprising. Hello—pardon me a moment."
Through the open doorway Prescott had caught sight of something moving down the highway. He ran speedily outside, got his glasses from Sergeant Hal and returned to the porch, where he climbed one of the wooden columns. Now he brought the glass to his eyes.
"What do you see?" asked Mr. Seaforth.
"I see," chuckled the lieutenant quietly, "that it was well for us that we left the road and came through the forest. Yonder are at least two hundred Moros marching along. There, they are debouching into the forest and will soon be added to the attacking party here. Those fellows went down the road to ambush us on the way, for they received a signal that we were on the road. We fooled them, but we shall have to reckon with them here, and within fifteen minutes. Mr. Seaforth, send all your people down into the cellar of the house. There they will be safe. This is a job for the Army alone!"
"But——"
"I am in command here, sir, and I direct you to send all of your own people to the cellar at once. That will free our minds of any dread for the safety of your people, and will leave us open to handle the problem that is coming to us."
Then, quite regardless of the fine mark that he presented to possible sharpshooters over in the grove, Lieutenant Prescott stepped outside.
"Sergeant Overton!"
"Sir?"
Hal stepped beside his officer. Thereupon the enemy's riflemen took heart and drove in a score of bullets. Lieutenant Prescott's hat was shot from his head. Two bullets passed through the edge of the sergeant's right trousers' leg, one hole showing just above the other. The back of Hal's left hand was grazed just enough to show the blood. The stick that the lieutenant carried was cut in two by a bullet and half of the stick carried away from him.