But on the sixth day, just at sunset, as we had dragged ourselves to the top of a wooded hill we saw below us, beyond a league of unbroken jungle, a great, shining sheet of water, like a cloud on the horizon, and someone cried: “The Pacific!” and we all stumbled forward, and some dropped on their knees, and some wept, and some swung their hats and tried to cheer. And then one of them, I never knew which, started singing, “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,” and we stood up, the last of the Legion, shaken with fever, starving, wounded, and hunted by our fellow-men, and gave praise to God, as we had never praised Him before. That night the fever took hold of me, and in my tossings and turnings I burst open the sword-wound at the back of my head. I remember someone exclaiming “He’s bled to death!” and a torch held to my eyes, and then darkness, and the sense that I was being carried and bumped about on men’s shoulders. The next thing I knew I was lying in a hammock, a lot of naked, brown children were playing in the dirt beside me, the sun was shining, great palms were bending in the wind above me, and the strong, sweet air of the salt sea was blowing in my face. I lay for a long time trying to guess where I was, and how I had come there. But I found no explanation for it, so I gave up guessing, and gazed contentedly at the bending palms until one of the children found my eyes upon him, and gave a scream, and they all pattered off like frightened partridges. That brought a native woman from behind me, smiling, and murmuring prayers in Spanish. She handed me a gourd filled with water. I asked where I was, and she said, “San Lorenzo.” I could have jumped out of the hammock at that, but when I tried to do so I found I could hardly raise my body. But I had gained the coast. I knew I would find strength enough to leave it. “Where are my friends?” I asked. “Where are the Gringoes?” But she raised her hands, and threw them wide apart. “They have gone,” she said, “three, four days from now, they sailed away in the white ship. There was a great fighting,” she said, raising her eyes and shaking her head, “and they carried you here, and told me to hide you. You have been very ill, and you are still very ill.” She gave a little exclamation and disappeared, and returned at once with a piece of folded paper. “For you,” she said. On the outside of the paper was written in Spanish: “This paper will be found on the body of Royal Macklin. Let the priest bury him and send word to the Military Academy, West Point, U. S. A., asking that his family be informed of his place of burial. They will reward you well.” Inside, in English, was the following letter in Aiken’s handwriting: