Basil started. “No, I never thought—Oh, there he is,” as the Scout officer came hurrying up one of the streets, accompanied by three more breathless white men.
Hayle went to meet them. “Mighty close shave, Captain,” he said.
Bush looked at him with wild eyes. “What is it all? What’s happened? What are you doing here? I was in the Treasurer’s—we had been playing cards late—when we heard the shooting, and saw the streets full of bolomen. I suppose this is Felizardo’s doing.”
“No, it isn’t,” Basil answered curtly; he had detected the lie. “It was the old insurrecto gang. If I had been ten minutes later they would have wiped out Igut;” and he gave the other a brief outline of what had occurred, omitting all mention of Felizardo.
Bush flushed. “I reckon my men would have put up a fight,” he said ungraciously, whereupon Basil turned on his heel and left him. Already, the serjeant had reported that, though there were five dead insurrectos in the barracks, there were six dead Scouts, not including the sentry; though the Constabulary had only lost one man, and Felizardo had lost none.
Whilst Bush was going up to the barracks, Basil glanced towards the balcony again; but Mrs Bush had disappeared. Still, he had the knowledge that he had saved her, and, what was better still, he had the memory of her grateful look.
Suddenly, it struck him that he was deadly weary. They had been marching since midday the previous day, and it was now about six in the morning, doing a forced march through jungle, without stopping to cook food. He leaned against the timbers of the belfry and beckoned to the serjeant, who was examining a small-bore rifle he had captured. “I don’t see the bugler anywhere, serjeant; but get the men together, and tell them all to pile their arms here and dismiss. They must be hungry and tired, and the Scouts can do the rest.”
The serjeant grinned. “We have left no ‘rest’ for them to do, Senor.”
It was not very dignified to be leaning against one of the posts of the belfry, so Basil tried to stand up erect, whilst waiting for his men; but the sudden relaxation of the strain had left him a little dazed, and, almost unconsciously, he sat down on the ground, with his shot-gun across his knees and his head forward. The thought which had kept him up so far, the memory of Mrs Bush’s look, had now been replaced by another, which drummed through his brain with maddening persistency—“Why had Bush himself been allowed to escape?” A stray shot, a chance slash with a bolo, and——
“Captain Hayle, what do you mean by this? Come into the house at once. You must be absolutely done up after that awful march from Silang.” Basil felt a hand laid gently on his shoulder, and scrambled to his feet at once.