ome, she dropped to the side of the bed and buried her face in
the coverlid.

The floor where she knelt seemed cold and hard.

CHAPTER III

MINDANAO

The old _Francesca_, directed by a nervous and none too competent
Tagalog captain, maneuvered in the six-mile tidal current which swept
west through the Straits making Zamboanga a nightmare to all the
native skippers who called at that port. Crab-like, she crawled
obliquely to within a few hundred feet of the low-lying town, then the
screw churned up a furious wake as the anxious Tagalog on the bridge
swung her back into the Straits to circle in a new attempt. Carried by
the tidal rush the old tub circled in a great ellipse.

Alone at the rail on the dingy promenade Terry stood enjoying his
first glimpse of Mindanao. Seven months in Luzon had brought him
countless tales of this uncertain southland--tales of pirates, of
insolent, murderous datos defiant behind their cotta fortresses, of
kris and barong wielded by fanatic Moros gone amok; of pearls as large
as robins' eggs, of nuggets tossed as playthings by naked children of
the forests, of mysterious tribes who inhabited the fastnesses of
inaccessible hills.

He wore the service uniform of the Constabulary, the field uniform of
khaki blouse and breeches, tan shoes and leggings, and stiff-brimmed
cavalry Stetson. The smart uniform set his erect figure off trimly
and added to the impression of alertness conveyed by his steady gray
eyes.

In the two wide swings back into midstream that ensued before the
steamer approached near enough land to get ropes to the little brown
stevedores who waited on the dock, Terry had ample opportunity for
study of the tropic panorama. The sea was dotted with Moro vintas,
swiftest of all Malayan sailing craft; tide and wind borne, some
scurried at tremendous pace toward the fishing grounds of the Sulu
Sea, others tacked painfully into the Celebes. A Government launch,
its starred and striped flag brilliant against the green sea in the
morning light, left its jetty and headed south toward the dim
coastline of Basilan. A score of gulls, that had followed the ship
down from Sorsogon, fattening on the waste thrown overboard after each
meal, circled around the ship aimlessly, uttering unpleasant cries.
The young sun mounted swiftly in a cloudless sky, hot on the trail of
the cool morning breezes, white in its threat of blistering punishment
of all who dared its shafts.

The hawser