"That is Mt. Togonda," he answered, pointing to the hills before them,
"and this," swinging his hand around the plateau on which the camp's
tents were pitched, "is La Plaza del Carabaos."

The captain's eyes met those of Lieutenant Smith.

"La Plaza del Carabaos" means "The Square of the Water Buffalos."

As if with one thought the two men turned and looked out to sea. The
sun had set. Against the glowing western sky a huge rock at the
plateau's farthest limit was outlined. Rough-carved as the rock had
been by the chisel of nature, the likeness to a water buffalo's head
was striking. Beyond the rock three islands lay in a line upon the
sunset-lighted water. Far out from the foot of the cliff the two men
could hear the waves beating upon the sand.

"This is an excellent place for a camp," the captain said when he
turned to his men again. "I think we shall find it best to stay here
for some time."

Perhaps a month of respite from attack had made the sentries careless;
perhaps it was only that the Tagalogs had spent the time in gathering
strength. No one can ever know just how that wicked slaughter of our
soldiers in the campaign on that island did come about.

The Tagalogs swept down into the camp that night as a hurricane might
have blown the leaves of the mountain trees across the plateau; and
then were gone again, leaving death, and wounds worse than death,
behind them.

When our men had rallied, and had come back across the battle-ground,
they found among the others, the captain lying dead outside his
tent. A Tagalog dagger lay beside the body, and the uniform had been
torn apart until the officer's bare breast showed.

The first full moon of the month shone down upon the dead man's white,
still face.

THE CAVE IN THE SIDE OF CORON

A "barong" is a Moro native's favourite weapon. With one deft whirl,
and then a downward slash of the keen steel blade he can cleave the
skull of an opponent from crown to teeth, or cut an arm clean from
the shoulder socket.

When I was sent with a squad of brave men from my company to
reconnoitre from Mt. Halcon, in the Island of Mindoro, and the force
was ambushed, the way I saw the men meet death will always make me
hate a Moro. Why I was spared, then, and bound, instead of being
killed like the men, I could not imagine. Later I knew.

The Moros had no business to be on Mindoro, anyway. Their home was in
Mindanao, far to the south, but three hundred years