ll's eye after bull's eye, for
twenty-seven of the Macabebes were expert riflemen, forty-three were
marksmen.

He saw that Matak, serving dinner, was gripped in one of the
smoldering moods that often preyed upon him. Though his attentions to
his master were even more meticulous than usual, he moved with an air
of somber detachment. Terry had often pondered on the history of the
queer Moro and now he studied him as he cleared the dishes and lighted
the desk lamp.

"Matak," he said.

The Moro came to him, his melancholy eyes fixed steadfastly upon the
master of his choice.

"Matak, you know that I have never asked you anything about your past
life. I am not going to ask you now, unless there is something in
which I can be of help to you."

Matak faced his master, his brown features Moro-masked, inscrutable.
A moment he searched the concerned countenance, then before Terry
understood his purpose, the tight muscles of his face relaxed and he
slid forward to kneel on one knee and raise Terry's hand to his lips
in the Moros' final homage to an _apo_--a self-chosen master. Rising,
he exposed a face stripped of its mask of Oriental imperturbability.

"Master," he said, "I tell you. No other knows. When I am small
boy--twelve years old--my family live east coast Basilan. Very happy
family, master: father, mother, sister, me; three carabaos we have, a
little house, chickens, a little _vinta_ in which to fish--everything
Moro family want. We hurt nobody, just work.

"One night, very late," his face darkened, "men come. They steal
carabaos, everything. My father wake up, go out to see, and they
laugh--and kill him. I--a little boy--see them do it: see them kill my
father--with bolos. Then they kill my mother--the same man--the same
bolo. I see that, too: they say she too old, and they laugh." He spoke
slowly, hesitating before each short sentence, his black eyes dulled
with the terrible memories.

"My sister--she sixteen years old--they take her away. They take me,
too, because I soon be strong boy to work. My sister--they say she
pretty girl!" He raised his hand in unutterable execration.

"We sail all night, all day. Second night, I hear my sister scream,
see her fighting with same big Filipino who kill my father and mother.
Another Filipino hold me away, laughing ... always I know that laugh,
master!

"She Moro girl, he Filipino, so she fight hard--she rather die. She
hurt him, so he draw knife, kill her, and throw