Phil eyed the Filipino girl questioningly. He could tell nothing from her sphynx-like face. Would she be glad to be rescued from this band of outlaws or was she at home and safe among them? The respect shown her by the leader and his men seemed to point to the conclusion that she was of importance among her people. He knew not what were those crisp words spoken the night before to prevent the fierce onslaught of the natives, but they had calmed the storm. She had saved their lives, that much was certain; and for that, even though she was at heart in sympathy with this band of pirates, he owed her his gratitude. His whole heart rebelled against the thought of captivity among the insurgents. He knew it would be a living death. Poorly nourished and without the necessities of life; exposed to the savage temper of a people whose spirits fluctuated more rapidly than a tropical barometer, there seemed but little to live for. Perhaps death would be happier! His thoughts dwelt upon the stories he had heard of the atrocities committed by this same Diocno upon American soldiers who had been captured. Some of them he had buried alive in an ant-hill all but their heads, with their mouths propped open and a train of sugar leading to their swollen tongues. A cold shiver ran down his spine as his imagination pictured the agony of these men as they slowly died. “It’s the ‘Albany,’” O’Neil cried joyfully a minute later, “and do you see the bone in her teeth? She’s making nearly twenty knots. Why, it’s all over but the shouting. These little yellow runts will look well when they are lined up against the wall at Cavite and shot for piracy.” Phil held up his hand to demand silence from the excited sailor. He did not know how much English the girl might know, and the ladrone leader might learn the dire wish of the sailorman for him and his followers. Then if the “Negros” escaped, his anger could be vented upon the Americans. But the girl’s face did not betray that she had understood the meaning of O’Neil’s words. The “Albany” was fast approaching, but Phil knew that O’Neil must be overestimating the cruiser’s speed; the most she could make, without special preparation, would be fifteen knots, but, and his joy welled up into his eyes,--her six-inch guns! He had seen them fired with accuracy at four miles. The shore line ahead had now become distinct. The deep cut in the surrounding hills betrayed the presence of the Davao River as it flowed through them to the sea. Groves of high-topped palm trees appeared, a deeper green against the emerald background, while the water stretching toward them from the land polluted the sea with a dull brown stain--the muddy water of the river. The town of Dumaguete could not be seen, but from the curls of rising smoke, Phil knew it must be beyond the first bend of the river and screened from view by the spur-like hill stretching its length from the mountains behind to the water’s edge.