But seeing that we were obdurate,
the datto served our farewell meal--baked jungle-fowl and rice--and,
after offering to purchase our Krag-Jorgesens at an attractive price,
he bade us all good-bye.

On the way back, our guides surprised us by their climbing and
swimming. There was one place where the Agus River had been spanned by
jointed bamboo poles; while we crossed like funambulists, depending
for our balance on a slender rail, the Moros leaped into the rushing
torrent, near the rapids, swimming like rats against the stream,
and reaching the other side ahead of us. One of the guides went up
a tall macao-tree, pulling himself up by the long parasitic vines,
and bracing himself against the tree-trunk with his feet, to get an
orchid that was growing high among the foliage. Though we expressed
our admiration at these feats, the guides preserved their customary
proud demeanor, and refused to be moved by applause.

Their active life in the vast wilderness has given them athletic,
supple bodies, which they handle to a nicety when fighting. Although
the Moros build stone forts and mount them with old-fashioned cannon;
although their arsenals are fairly well supplied with Remingtons and
Mausers, their warriors generally prefer to fight with bolos. These
weapons never leave their side. They sleep with them, and they are
buried with them. Their heavy _campalans_ are fastened to their hands
by thongs, so that, in case the hand should slip, the warrior would
not fall without his knife. The Moros in a hand-to-hand fight are
extremely agile. Holding the shield on the left arm, they flourish the
bolo with their right, dodging, leaping, and jeering at the antagonist
in order to disconcert or frighten him.

While their religion and fanaticism render them almost foolhardy in a
battle, if a Moro sees that he is beaten and that escape is possible,
he will avail himself of opportunities to fight another day. If brought
to bay, however, he is desperate, and in his more religious moments
he will throw himself on a superior enemy, expecting a sure death,
but confident of riding the white horse to paradise if he succeeds
in spilling the blood of infidels.

Although distrustful, lazy, and malignant, the Moro is consistent in
his hatred for the unbeliever, and untiring on the war-path. Scorning
all manner of work, he leads an active forest life, killing the
wild pig, which religious scruples prevent his eating, and waging
war against the