HE GAZED DOWN INTO THE
STILL FACE
A body brushed him nearly off his feet and he turned toward it, his rifle raised as if to ward off an expected blow and then as his eyes fell upon the disheveled figure, he gave a cry of delight.
“O’Neil,” he shouted above the noise of the fighting, as he put his arm about the great figure to steady himself from the force of the impact from the khaki-clad soldiers pressing eagerly upon them.
“There’s that devil,” the sailor cried in smothered rage, and Phil saw with astonishment that O’Neil had naught but his bare hands though the lust of battle was in his eyes. The horror of his recent torture pressed heavily on his mind and he was bending every exertion to reach the retreating insurgent leader.
So closely did the Americans press their foes that the lifeless body of Lieutenant Tillotson was abandoned, and Phil stopped, kneeling at his side and gazed down into the still face. There was a deep wound in the neck. Phil saw that the troubled spirit had been released. Ahead the pursuers had stopped and were firing fiercely in the direction of the retreating enemy.
“We can’t allow Espinosa to escape,” the lad cried, aghast as he regained his men and saw with horror that many lay moaning on the ground.
“They’re intrenched there, sir,” a sergeant exclaimed. “It would be suicide to charge them;” but Phil had gone too far and had suffered too much to be stopped by any thoughts of discretion or danger.
“Charge, I say,” he cried; “that murderer Espinosa must not escape.”
The sergeant from his security on the ground gazed up at the lad, believing quite properly that he had lost his mind, but before he could be stopped, Phil was beyond reach, charging blindly forward, while from the intrenchments came a volume of fire which it seemed folly to face.