In the center of the clearing stood a little building--plainly the schoolhouse in which the few white children on the plantation and probably many native children of the neighborhood were taught, five days in the week, by some clear-eyed Yankee schoolma'am furnished by Uncle Sam's Government. Seven Moros were visible at or close to the schoolhouse. All of them were armed. One fellow was hurrying up with a can of oil, which, while the soldiers waited and watched, he sprinkled over the woodwork of the doorway, carrying a trail of the oil inside the building. "That's a Filipino estimate of the value of education," whispered Lieutenant Prescott savagely to his sergeant. But then something happened that made Hal Overton boil with indignation. Just as the fellow had finished scattering the oil and was about to strike a match, one of the other Moros seized the fellow's arm, then pointed up to the flag pole over the front of the building. All of the brown rascals began to chuckle. Then one of them climbed up. With a keen-edged creese he cut the Flag loose, hurling it down to the ground. Now began an orgy of derision. First the Moros spat upon the Flag; then, howling gleefully, they commenced to dance upon it. Every now and then one of the brown men bent down to slash at the Flag. It was hard for some sixty of Uncle Sam's men to stand there, with guns in their hands, and witness such desecration as that. Some of the soldiers began to mutter. "Silence!" hissed Lieutenant Prescott. One soldier rested his rifle forward, as though bent on taking a shot, but Sergeant Hal, like a flash, knocked up his arm. "No man is to fire unless ordered," muttered Overton, and Lieutenant Prescott nodded his approval. Soon the Flag lay torn and trampled, all but covered in the dust of the roadway before the school. Then one of the Moros again struck a match. In a moment the flames began to crackle and the smoke to ascend. Then, as if satisfied with their work, the brown rascals set out at a steady trot in the direction of Seaforth's. "Men," spoke Lieutenant Prescott, in a low voice, "it would have been fine to have poured a volley into those wretches, but it would have told their main body our exact location. We must sink all other feelings until we have reached the plantation and rescued those imperiled there. Corporal Cotter, lead your men to the left, through the woods and around the schoolhouse. On the other side you will find a path that you will follow." As the detachment started Hal saluted. "Sir, have I your permission to run out into the clearing, recover the Flag and then rejoin you?" Lieutenant Prescott shot a keen look at the Army boy, then answered briefly: "Yes, Sergeant." Hal's task was quickly executed. In the open he encountered no one; when he rejoined the column in the woods he reverently carried a Flag, torn, slashed and dirt-stained.