Now the savage horde had given way and his men had quickly closed in, warily protecting their flanks, knowing full well the cunning of their enemy. To his left the lad saw hundreds of natives hurling rocks into the river below them, and he cut a lane toward them, yelling to the loyal natives to prevent what he feared would be the destruction of his ship. From below the ominous rattle of a Colt gun gladdened his heart and he saw with delight the men on the cliffs flee in terror, leaving great boulders balanced menacingly on the very edge of the abyss. An American cheer rang out from behind him and he became dizzy with joy at the good news it brought. He read in the natives’ eyes a look of terror at the sudden appearance of an unlooked for enemy, and at the same instant he realized that if he and his loyal natives were to be saved he must extricate them from this dangerous position between the fire of the two opposing forces. He looked wildly about him for Lopez, but he was nowhere in sight, and already the soldiers had begun to open a withering fire in their direction. Mad with their exertions, brought suddenly face to face with the enemy, the soldiers would have no discretion; friend and foe alike were mixed in one writhing mass of brown. Then a sinister face showed itself on his right hand and all thoughts of safety were thrown to the winds. Espinosa, the tyrant and murderer, was within his reach. With a score of men as a body-guard he was hurrying away, deserting the field of battle. The midshipman pressed against the enemy to his right, fighting his way even through the remnant of the loyal natives, crying out to them to follow, while behind him he could hear the heavy footfalls of the soldiers. [Illustration: _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.