“Don’t know,” said his companion. “You wait, and I’ll get a lantern and we will see.”
The lantern’s light showed the clothing parted over a dead man’s body, and the fragment of a leather thong which had gone about his neck, with broken ends. Whatever had been fastened to the thong was gone, carried away by the Tagalog when he had fled.
The next morning a prisoner was brought to headquarters. “The picket who caught him, sir,” the officer who brought the prisoner reported, “said he heard a shot near the church where the wounded natives are; and then this man came running from that way.”
The surgeons who had been on night duty at the hospital were sent for, and their story heard.
“Search the man,” said the officer in command.
The native submitted to the ordeal in sullen silence, and made no protest, when, from some place within his clothing, there was taken a small, dirty leather bag from which two broken ends of leather thong still hung. Only his eyes followed the officer’s hands wolfishly, as they untied the string which fastened the bag, and took from it a little leather-bound book not more than two inches square. The officer looked at the book curiously. It was very thin, and upon the tiny pages, yellow with age, there was writing, still legible, although the years which had stained the paper yellow had faded the ink. He spelled out a few words, but they were in a language which he did not know. “Take the man to the prison,” he said. “I will keep the book.”
Later in the day the officer called an orderly. “Send Lieutenant Smith to me,” he said.
By one of the odd chances of a war where, like that in the Philippines, the forces at first must be hastily raised, Captain Von Tollig and the subordinate officer for whom he had sent, had been citizens of the same town. The captain had been a business man, shrewd and keen,—too keen some of his neighbors sometimes said of him. Lieutenant Smith was a college man, a law student. It had been said of them in their native town that both had paid court to the same young woman, and that the younger man had won in the race. If this were so, there had been no evidence on the part of either in the service to show that they were conscious of the fact. There had been little communication between them, it is true, but when there had been the subordinate officer never overlooked the deference due his superior.
“I wish you would take this book,” said Captain Von Tollig, after he had told briefly how the volume happened to be in his possession, “and see if you can translate it. I suspect it must be something of value, from the risk this man took to get it; possibly dispatches from one native leader to another, the nature of which we ought to know.”
The young man took the queer little book and turned the pages curiously. “I hardly think what is written here can be dispatches,” he said, “The paper and the ink both look too old for that. The words seem to be Latin; bad Latin, too, I should say. I think it is what the natives call an ‘anting-anting;’ that is a charm of some kind. Evidently this one did not save the life of the man who wore it. Probably it is a very famous talisman, else they would not have run such a risk to try to get it back.”