“He has accepted your surrender.” She spoke in Spanish. Then, with her hands placed lightly on Phil’s shoulder she jumped down to the deck and advanced to meet the native leader. At a few paces from her he halted, and the Americans held their breath in wonder to see the bandit bow low before her, raising her hand to his lips. Then he turned and gave several harsh commands to his followers, who quietly dispersed.
Inside of but a few minutes the lorcha had disappeared in the night and the “Negros” resumed its journey, the noisy engines chugging away just as faithfully under their new masters.
The Americans, as they gathered about the table to finish the meal long forgotten in the excitement of the attack, marveled at the outcome of the affair.
“Who can she be?” Sydney whispered. “Why, she orders the ladrone leader around as if she were a princess.”
Phil was about to reply when the girl herself appeared from the shadows, followed by the native chief.
The lads regarded him with a mixture of feelings, admiration for his soldierly bearing and disgust at the thought of the wilful butchery they had seen him permit on the bridge of the steamer.
They recognized at once that these two were of the highest caste among their people. The man’s face, almost perfect in contour, except in the cruel lines of the mouth, beamed hospitably upon them.
The girl spoke quickly, breathlessly.
“Colonel Martinez wishes to meet the brave Americans who would have fought unarmed against overwhelming odds and who had no thoughts of asking for quarter.”
The Americans bowed, but the Filipino advanced, his hand outstretched. Phil took it with almost a shudder. Why had this hand been withheld while the Spanish captain and his officers were asking for mercy scarcely five minutes before? Yet he knew that he had no choice but to take the proffered fingers; he and his companions were in the power of this man, the lines of whose mouth told what might happen if the native leader’s pride was offended.