ime, after which he had his house built
over her burial-place, and there lives to this day, still faithful
to the mouldering bones beneath him. Surely a proof that great love
sometimes stirs even savage breasts. Considering the environment,
for this man lives in a country where polygamy is not only recognized
but encouraged, and where women are bought and sold by the pound,
like so much meat, his love is on a par with the idyllic attachments
of history and fiction.

Speaking of buying and selling women among the Moros, reminds me of an
old Maharajah in Bongao who had never seen an American woman until the
arrival of the _Burnside_. Of course all white women are considered
very beautiful by these dusky savages, an evidence of how much they
admire Europeans being found in the fact that they firmly believe in
the Sultan's Seventh Heaven all the wives of his harem will have white
skins. Noticing the Maharajah's absorbed interest in our appearance,
the Governor, to our intense disgust, insisted upon asking the old
fellow what he thought the quartermaster's wife should be worth
in dollars and cents. The toothless Maharajah took it all quite
seriously, looked at the lady in question with much discrimination,
pulled at his wisp of a billy-goat beard in contemplative silence,
and after some minutes of deep thought replied that she should be
worth about a hundred dollars, Mexican, an abnormally large amount,
as Moro women seldom average over forty dollars, Mexican, apiece.

Then the irrepressible young man turned to me, asking at what the
Maharajah thought I should be valued. Without a moment's hesitation,
the old sinner, to my chagrin and the uproarious delight of the whole
party, appraised me at only eighty dollars, Mexican, and this despite
the fact that I had smiled my pleasantest, in the hope that he would
rate me at least as high as the quartermaster's wife.

Datto Sakilon, whom we met next day, proved more diplomatic, for
when asked what he thought we women should be worth in the Mohammedan
market, replied that it was impossible to tell, because if Moro women
could be bought for forty dollars apiece, an American woman should
be worth at least a thousand. Not bad repartee for a barbarian! In
return for his consideration, I must admit that he was the best dressed
Moro we saw in Bongao. On the day in question he wore a suit of gray
drill, made with the conventional tight trousers and vest-like coat,
broken out at regular i