Bang--bang--bang, faster than one could count, resembling the explosions in the cylinders of a high power touring car, only infinitely louder and more sonorous, the Colt gun hurled a solid leaden stream of bullets into the charging mass. As coolly as if he were merely steering a boat, O’Neil played the leaden hose on the startled enemy. They went down like chaff before the reaper; while from behind urging them onward, the cordite shells of the gunboat, which had followed them, burst with terrific havoc. Throwing down their rifles--it did not enter their heads to ask for the quarter which the Americans would have been only too willing to give--they turned inland directly toward the burning town. “Cease firing,” Phil cried out in alarm, as he saw suddenly appear, almost in the path of the routed natives, the small band of men who had come so near death at their hands. Rifles in hand, the relieved soldiers advanced toward the now terrified insurgents and poured a deadly fire into their already mortally stricken ranks. “Come on,” yelled Phil, leading the way on a run, followed by his men. “We can bag them all in that swamp.” But the lad did not realize what fear can do for a native Filipino. The Colt gun on the left where O’Neil had advanced it on the run, and the rifles of the threescore jubilant soldiers lent wings to their enemy’s feet as those finding themselves miraculously spared from instant death plunged into that impenetrable mangrove thicket. Volley after volley was fired in the direction in which they had disappeared, and the crash of the bullets could be distinctly heard, but no white man could have followed where they fled. The sun was now above the horizon and the light of day showed a gruesome sight to Phil’s eyes. Many hundreds of natives lay dead or in their death agonies on the sandy soil. The doctor from the garrison and his assistants attempted to help the sufferers, but after one hospital man had been maimed for life by a wounded native to whom he was administering, there could be little more to do. Graves were at once dug in the little cemetery back of the church and there they were placed one on top of the other in long rows and then the earth was thrown on top and covered with rock to keep out the hungry mongrel dogs, more savage even than their masters. The fight had hardly terminated before a small boat came quickly ashore from the gunboat. Phil’s good spirits left him as he saw Lieutenant Tillotson come swaggering up to the group of soldiers and sailors. Sergeant Sweeney, who had been in command of the small garrison, had been excitedly giving Phil the details of the attack, when the lieutenant’s flushed, angry face brought him to a sudden stop. “Well, sergeant,” he cried in an insolent harsh voice, “make your report to me; I am in command here; this man has no standing.” Phil was so stunned at the words that he didn’t understand or at least realize its meaning.