O’Neil stopped in his tracks so suddenly that the two brown men bumped their heads with some force against his back and cried out with surprise. “Why, sir!” he answered in an aggrieved tone. “Have I done anything to displease you, sir?” Phil laughed outright, only to be prodded by the sharp bayonets of his captors for his incautiousness. “If that’s the way you feel about it,” he said, “I am glad you are here.” Inside of ten minutes, conversation was impossible, for they needed all their breath for the precipitous climb up the face of the cliff leading to the top of the mountain. The natives on each side of the prisoners pulled and pushed them up the jagged and rocky trail until their bodies were bruised and their skin torn in many places by the cruel cactus and “Spanish bayonet,” which seemed to have been planted by nature as a further difficulty for those who dared to ascend the secret trail to the insurgent stronghold. After many rests, out of breath, footsore, bleeding and tired, the top was reached and with scant courtesy O’Neil and Phil were thrown into a nipa shack, where they fell unceremoniously on top of a sleeping human being who awakened with a cry of alarm and fear, striking at them with his manacled hands. “It’s Lieutenant Tillotson,” O’Neil exclaimed gladly, as he rolled away to the farthest side of the small hut, to put himself out of reach of the startled prisoner. “Who are you?” came from the figure, in a weak voice. “Yes, I am Lieutenant Tillotson. Tell me I’m not dreaming. Didn’t I hear a white man’s voice?” [Illustration: _UP THE FACE OF THE CLIFF_] Phil could see him dimly by the light of the camp-fire outside. The man had been completely cowed. What terrible torture had been inflicted to cause him to become such an abject figure, groveling before them, his voice hollow, and in his eyes a light of unreasonable fear? “It is Midshipman Perry and O’Neil from the gunboat, Tillotson,” the lad whispered. “We hope to save you if you will keep quiet and do just what we tell you.” Phil could have wept in pity at the sight of the physical wreck before him. He was shocked at the sight. Tillotson’s eyes were dull and the face empty of hope. “You don’t know what you are saying,” he answered in a monotonous voice. “No one can be saved who is brought to this place. Death is the one avenue of escape. Oh! No one knows of the tortures I have endured from that fiend’s hands.” Then his face lit up for a second as he raised himself from the ground and stared at Phil, who had approached and stood looking down pityingly upon him. “How can you save me? Oh, tell me the truth. Are you not prisoners also?” Phil seated himself by the side of the unnerved man and begged him to be calm and reserve his strength. After a few moments he told him of the plan and his hopes for success. “Let us pray for success,” the captive cried weakly. “I had determined to throw myself off the cliff rather than undergo another day’s torture.”