“Senor Felizardo,” he said, “I must go back;” he looked away and went on, a little brokenly: “Thank you, Senor. I told Don José we should never see you again, either of us. Now I, at least, have seen you, and I am glad, and—and very grateful.”
Again Felizardo smiled. “So you told Don José that? Well, we shall see;” and he began to walk away slowly.
The corporal called him back. “I might get you a pardon, even now, though … you know … the Church——”
The other man’s face grew hard. “I take no pardons,” he said sternly; then he shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “And, anyway, Senor, they would grant none. Still, it was kind of you.”
They carried the corporal down to Igut, where to his surprise he found eight survivors out of his force, and they put him on board a canoe, after what seemed a day’s unnecessary delay. Then they started back to Calocan, his own men paddling the canoe. The corporal was very unhappy. He knew now that he must be invalided out of the service: not honourably, however, but in disgrace, for his haste, or rather his over-devotion to duty, had brought disaster on the arms of Spain.
True, it would be a difficult matter to explain, for the women and children and the loot as well were back in Igut, and the surviving men had crept in from the jungle and begun to rebuild the nipa-houses, whilst, as a price for his rescue, Felizardo had made him promise not to tell how the mountaineers had rescued him. He wished now he had not given that promise—it was, probably, like the rest of the business, contrary to the Regulations—but, having given it, he must abide by it. He puzzled over the matter all the way back to Calocan, wondering what his men would say, not knowing that they had received orders on that point—orders which they now dare not disobey—from Felizardo himself.
When the canoe reached Calocan, the whole population was waiting on the beach to greet him. They cheered, and they crowded round him, and the women showered blessings on him; whilst there was even an orderly from Manila, commanding him to go to the Governor-General himself, a Grandee of Spain, as soon as his wounds permitted. The corporal flushed and stammered and looked round helplessly; then Don José came forward and took his arm. “Come up to my house. It will be quiet there.”
He led the corporal into the well-remembered room, which, somehow, seemed different now to the visitor, possibly because he had always entered it before as a proud and important man, whilst this time he felt himself an impostor. He took his glass of wine with trembling hands, put it to his lips, then set it down untasted. He might have to deceive every one else, but he could not be false to this old friend. He drew his hand across his forehead slowly, then he blurted out: “It’s a lie. I was beaten. I thought all my men were killed.”
Don José leaned forward and laid a hand on his arm. “I know the truth, my friend—everything. Felizardo told me.”
The corporal sat up erect in his chair and gasped. “Felizardo? When? How?”