“I claim the privilege of doing that, Señor Perry,” the colonel replied. Phil regarded him sternly. The native looked into the midshipman’s eyes unwaveringly. “Why should you?” the lad asked. “Ah, señor, I had forgotten,” the native said earnestly, taking his revolver from its holster and holding it butt forward to the midshipman. “Colonel Remundo in Luzon, Colonel Martinez in Kapay, and now Gregorio Rodriguez, surrenders to you as a prisoner of war.” Phil looked aghast, while O’Neil mumbled inarticulate nautical phrases of surprise. “Are you then Maria’s brother?” the lad asked. Gregorio nodded his head slowly, still holding his revolver for Phil to take. “Put your revolver back,” the midshipman ordered peremptorily. “You and I never have been enemies--except for a very short time,” he added as the remembrance of those two anxious days after his capture on the “Negros” came into his mind. “Anyway, we have now the same objective, that murderer yonder, but,” and he lowered his voice to a cold, hard tone, “you shall not kill him if we can capture him alive. I forbid it.” Gregorio’s black eyes blazed, and despite the avowed friendship of the native, O’Neil reached hastily for his revolver. Then as suddenly the native mastered himself and with a shrug turned away his telltale eyes. “I know how you feel, colonel,” Phil declared conscious of the passion in the native’s soul, “but I’d rather have it done regularly. We’ll try him by a military commission for treason and hang him in the Plaza in Palilo as a warning to all traitors.” Slowly the fishing boat overhauled the bigger craft. Now the distance was but five hundred yards. The sun had risen and shone down on the green opalescent water. A report of a rifle-shot startled the Americans who had settled themselves for a long and monotonous chase. “So they are going to offer resistance,” Phil exclaimed. “Yes; let him have it, O’Neil,” he added as the sailor threw the muzzle of his piece forward and looked questioningly at the midshipman. O’Neil’s rifle cracked and a figure standing on the rail near the mast doubled up and fell forward in the boat. A fusillade of shots followed from the fleeing boat, the bullets hissing in the water dangerously near the dozen huddled Americans. “We can’t allow this,” Phil exclaimed uneasily; “they can’t miss us if we get any closer. “Open fire!” he ordered suddenly. Ten rifles were discharged almost as one, and as quickly fired again and again. The sharp rattle of the breech-blocks was continuous. By this time the Americans had approached abreast the enemy, but above its rail no human being was visible. Had all been killed by the unerring shooting of Phil’s men?