all times during
the night. Then suddenly a shot was heard which had been fired by some
vigilant sentinel on guard, then another, and another.

It now became evident that they had charged the lines and were making a
dash for liberty. In an instant every soldier was on the alert. They
kept on coming, however, seemingly regardless of death or the rain of
bullets. But few of them escaped or even lived to tell the tale, for as
fast as they left the fort they were being shot down by a constant
stream of fire from the Infantry, and when the morning dawned it was
found that the Sultan of Maciu, with many another leader and tribesman,
had fallen, never to breathe again.

During the struggle, the Sultan Cabugatan of Maciu, seeing that his
efforts to suppress the Americans were in vain, rushed into camp, bolo
in hand, in wild, frenzied excitement, determined to slay in cold blood
everybody wearing an American uniform. But his savage intentions were
brought to a speedy termination by the troops, who, on seeing him
approach them, rushed towards him and overpowered him. However, he
unfortunately succeeded in seriously wounding one of the best and
bravest soldiers in the command, Private Richard G. Macbeth, of Co. "F"
27th U. S. Infantry, whose bravery in time of danger had made him an
unanimous favorite among his comrades. Another victim of this savage
Sultan was Pvt. James Nolan, Jr., of Co. "G" 27th U. S. Infantry, who,
having been detailed as a scout, had fearlessly advanced upon one of the
forts in order to secure, if possible, some information regarding their
position and strength. He had reached the outer entrance when he met a
storm of bullets from within, one of them hitting him in the right eye,
inflicting a wound from which he suffered great pain.

But their sufferings were doubly avenged, for many a hitherto
unconquerable Moro has fallen upon the green and now deserted
territories of the Sultan of Maciu, with the bones of his mortal
composition bleaching on the green sward, under the tropical sun of his
native skies.

"Where once in triumph on his trackless plains
The haughty Moro Sultan loved to reign,
With shacks proportioned to his native sky,
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye,
He roamed with uncovered feet, his sun-illumined zone.
The dirk, the bolo, and the spear his own;
Or lead the combat wild without a plan
An artless savage, but a fearless man.
But his 'sun'