With eyes straining and faculties alert for the first premonition of danger, Phil directed his boat forward. The gunboat had been swallowed up in the night astern. The shore grew more distinct. The church now stood out prominently, silhouetted against the background of flames from the burning convent. Even as he gazed the gun fire from the church seemed to slacken and against the bright glow he could see indistinctly natives swarming toward the burning building. Their number seemed myriad; surely those could not be all riflemen. Then he turned cold as he suddenly grasped the sinister meaning--they were bolo-men. For each rifleman, at least four natives armed with bolos are assigned. They are the guardians of the precious rifle. To obtain an insurgent gun, five men must be slain. These men, armed with weapons in the use of which every native is proficient, were advancing to rush upon the trapped men when the heat of the fire and the smoke had driven them from the shelter of the church’s protecting walls. So intent had Phil been that the boat, before he realized it, had grounded on the sandy beach and the men had jumped overboard into the shallow water. Once on the beach, he superintended the securing of the boats and then led the way toward the point he had selected for the first position to be occupied. The enemy were only a few hundred yards away, but so intent were they on the accomplishment of their cruel purposes, that the shadowy forms of the men from the sea, stealing quietly through the short grass and against a background of darkness, were not discovered. Phil’s quick eyes suddenly discovered some one approaching from a direction away from the enemy. He gripped his revolver firmly, not knowing how many more men might be behind the figure discovered. As the Americans approached the newcomer, a native suddenly raised his hand and called loudly: “Amigo, hua carta.”[2] A blow from O’Neil’s revolver butt was the answer, while Phil grasped the letter which had been held in the stricken man’s hand, placing it carefully in his breast-pocket. Then a warning cry rang out, followed by a rifle-shot, the hot blast of which almost burned Phil’s cheek, while a wiry form struck boldly right and left with his keen blade in the very midst of the startled Americans. CHAPTER VIII THE PRIVILEGES OF RANK “There was two of ’em, captain,” the infantry sergeant exclaimed, in that purely official calm voice for which the army non-commissioned officers are noted even under the most trying and hazardous circumstances, while he pushed away the body from beneath his feet, after making sure the native was not shamming. “They was messengers, telling the gugus of the coming of the gunboat, I reckon.” The small band of soldiers and sailors moved cautiously through the rank grass and sparse cocoanut palms. The enemy before the town had been too much occupied to discover the disturbance in their rear.