Having walked some distance from the hacienda, I heard off in the mountains that familiar guttural accent of a cochero driving a caribou; I listened, and he gradually grew closer. On his arrival I found him to be a Filipino with a load of sugarcane and bananas, _en route_ to Malolos. Being curious to know why this substantial home was unoccupied, I inquired in Spanish from this man, who informed me, with great stress, that no natives could be induced to live here, as the entire family, the occupants, had fallen victims to the dreaded cholera. Well, right here I felt as though I was on my journey across the river Styx. Shortly after, on meeting the lieutenant, I said to him, “Lieutenant, has it not aroused your curiosity as to why this house is unoccupied?” “Why, yes, it seems strange,” he replied. “Well, I will enlighten you a bit,” said I. Then I told him the story the cochero had told me. I once saw a man sentenced to be shot, and, if looks count, his feelings and those of the officer were identical. He thought it wise to move in the direction of the monastery; but I informed him that there was no need to worry; that, if we had suffered contamination, it would have been all over long before this, as there is no delay in the operation of an Asiatic-cholera germ. On learning this he was greatly relieved; so we shoved off and completed our circuit. However, some of the party were pretty uneasy; they had drunk unboiled water from the olios. “Furthermore deponent saith not.” We returned to headquarters just in time to escape the rainy season. Here we spent weeks in idleness, playing cards, reading, and occasionally I would run up to Malolos by rail, then engage a caromato to convey me to Montao to see Carmen Lemaire. Sometimes the river was so swollen by the torrents of rain that it was impossible to get across. Naturally, life became rather monotonous, and upon request I was relieved and returned to duty with my regiment, back to civilization and the lights and music of the Luneta. This engaging mestizo señorita visited Manila a number of times before my departure for the States, and, although the honor of “queen of the carnival” fell to the lot of an older mestizo, the charming presence of Carmen Lemaire on this occasion brooked no competition, for beauty, grace, or intelligence. Rudyard Kipling, whose “Barrack-ballads” are favorites in the army and navy, describes in mililoquent tones incidents appertaining to the “Far East,” in “On the Road to Mandalay,” from which I quote: