“Not let me go!” he exclaimed. “Why, General, you haven’t enough men in your command to stop me, and as for the Spaniards and guerillas--! I’m homesick,” cried the young man. “I’m so damned homesick that I am liable to die of it before the transport gets me to Sandy Hook.” “If you are shot up by an outpost,” growled the general, “you will be worse off than homesick. It’s forty miles to Mayaguez. Better wait till daylight. Where’s the sense of dying, after the fighting’s over?” “If I don’t catch that transport I sure WILL die,” laughed Chesterton. His head was bent and he was tugging at his saddle girths. Apparently the effort brought a deeper shadow to his tan, “but nothing else can kill me! I have a charm, General,” he exclaimed. “We hadn’t noticed it,” said the general. The staff officers, according to regulations, laughed. “It’s not that kind of a charm,” said Chesterton. “Good-by, General.” The road was hardly more than a trail, but the moon made it as light as day, and cast across it black tracings of the swinging vines and creepers; while high in the air it turned the polished surface of the palms into glittering silver. As he plunged into the cool depths of the forest Chesterton threw up his arms and thanked God that he was moving toward her. The luck that had accompanied him throughout the campaign had held until the end. Had he been forced to wait for a transport, each hour would have meant a month of torment, an arid, wasted place in his life. As it was, with each eager stride of El Capitan, his little Porto Rican pony, he was brought closer to her. He was so happy that as he galloped through the dark shadows of the jungle or out into the brilliant moonlight he shouted aloud and sang; and again as he urged El Capitan to greater bursts of speed, he explained in joyous, breathless phrases why it was that he urged him on. “For she is wonderful and most beautiful,” he cried, “the most glorious girl in all the world! And, if I kept her waiting, even for a moment, El Capitan, I would be unworthy--and I might lose her! So you see we ride for a great prize!” The Spanish column that, the night before, had been driven from Adhuntas, now in ignorance of peace, occupied both sides of the valley through which ran the road to Mayaguez, and in ambush by the road itself had placed an outpost of two men. One was a sharp-shooter of the picked corps of the Guardia Civile, and one a sergeant of the regiment that lay hidden in the heights. If the Americans advanced toward Mayaguez, these men were to wait until the head of the column drew abreast of them, when they were to fire. The report of their rifles would be the signal for those in the hill above to wipe out the memory of Adhuntas.