Karin San seized the spy by the arm, and they vanished up the spiral stairway. Immediately bayonets crashed upon the door, and it burst open. The doll-eyed soldier and his companion of the morning, preceded by the green-capped cavalry officer, hurled themselves into the room. The officer seized the captain by both arms. “Brewster, American, we arrest!” he cried, and turning to the doll-eye, delivered a rapid order to search the house,—so judged the Yankee—for he smiled and bowed at his prisoner, saying, “We find also you friend, Russki spy.” But the doll-eye and his mate were checked in ascending the stair by Karin San descending with upraised arms and her sweetest smile. The privates paused and bowed. The three at first spoke calmly back and forth. Then the doll-eye began shouting at the schoolmistress, once with what the captain was certain would be an oath in English. But always she replied to them earnestly smiling, never pleadingly, gravely shaking her head, her hand upon her heart; always quiet, determined, arguing with utter self-possession, calmly appealing—to what? wondered the captain, in such fanatics of patriotism. At length both soldiers turned and saluted the Major, uttered a short sentence, and descended the stair. The officer turned to Brewster, elevating his long mustachios in a sardonic smile. “You see,” he said, “the love of country of the Japanese. Perhaps you think it is the respect for woman, wherefore my soldier do not search the teacher room. It is not. Boy, man, woman, all labor for the same end, our country. No one would betray; we trust one another absolute. It is so we exist; we fight; we win. “We think the spy Russki enter here with you. But Karin San, as much myself officer of the Emperor, declare he is not here,” he went on with a self-satisfied smile. “We believe her. He has escape,” and turning to the soldiers he gave them another sharp order—to search the town and the hills about. Next morning, sitting cross-legged and politely silent with his captor, at a breakfast of sweet chicken hash and cabbage, Captain Brewster sprang to his feet. “_Bzoo-oo-oooo!_” groaned a whistle under the glittering hills along the river. Away dashed his manikin host without word or glance. Between the cedar slats of the captain’s prison—the major’s house by courtesy—the Yankee sighted the long, thin funnel and squat deck of an American gunboat. Two hours passed. Then the doll-eyed soldier who stood guard on the veranda, slid open the paper house-door. Three tall Yankee tars followed by a young lieutenant with sandy hair and a long upper lip, scraped heavy feet on the major’s mats. “Brewster, are you responsible for this?” said the officer, handing the captain a pink paper oblong. “Guess I be,” drawled the prisoner, taking the cable message. He read: State Department orders unconditional protection for Brewster, American, Chinnampo.