Hardly daring to draw a breath, and with his heart pounding against his ribs as if it would break them, Ned waited. It was overpoweringly hot in the brush. The sweat dribbled from his forehead and rolled down his nose, itching it in maddening fashion, but he did not dare to move a hand to mop his brow. A moment of inattention, he felt, might cost him his life.

Suddenly the crackling was repeated, this time close at hand. Ned could not repress a start, and as his frame twitched nervously the brush directly in front of him parted. To his astonishment, something red was thrust through. In the sudden relief to his feelings, Ned almost burst into a roar of laughter, for the rubicund object quickly revealed itself as Herc’s scarlet thatch. The former farm boy raised a red, dripping[289] face, and gazed inquiringly about him, his countenance framed oddly in the dusty brush.

“I’ll swear I heard something,” he muttered.

“And you did, too,” whispered Ned, in a cautious tone, but one which carried.

“Ned——” almost shouted Herc.

“Hush, you red-headed Indian! do you want to bring the insurgent army down on us?

“What on earth are you doing here?” demanded Ned, as Herc drew closer.

“Why, I saw you slip from your horse, and I guessed you were going to do something risky. I couldn’t help it, Ned, I had to be with you.”

“But, Herc, this is a dangerous errand. It may mean death.”

“I know that,” rejoined Herc simply. “That’s the reason I came—so that I could be with you in case of trouble.”

“Herc, you are a brick!” exclaimed Ned, his voice shaken with real feeling. He reached out and clasped the Dreadnought Boy’s hand.

“We’re in this thing together now,” he went on.
 
“And we’ll see it through together.”

“You bet. Now, come on.”

Forward crept the two boys. In a few minutes they gained the edge of the declivity, through which they hoped to crawl, unseen by the insurgent gunners. Without a word, for it was not a situation which any words would fit, they emerged from the friendly cover of the brush, and began crawling along the bottom of the dusty dip. It seemed terribly shallow, now that they were in it, and, flat as they stretched themselves, Ned felt that they must look as big as elephants.

“Reminds me of the time I played in a show at the village hall,” whispered Herc, as they crawled through the dust. “I felt like I was the only thing on the stage.”

In times of great physical risk the mind sometimes remains almost dormant during the most dangerous part of the performance. So it was that, almost without knowing it, the Dreadnought Boys crossed the dip in the road and emerged unscratched in the government lines.
 
They were rudely recalled to themselves, however, by a sharp voice almost in their ears. Looking up, they saw a dark-skinned soldier, in a shabby uniform standing over them. His bayonet was fixed, and he looked formidable.

“What did he say?” whispered Herc.

“Something like ‘Speak, or I’ll shoot,’” rejoined Ned, holding up one hand in token that it was empty.

“Americanos,” he said.

The soldier seemed to comprehend, and nodded. Beckoning, he led the Dreadnought Boys through a thick grove to where a group of officers stood chatting.

“You’d think they were going to play tennis to look at them!” exclaimed Herc.

“Yes, if Colonel Lazard is worrying, they are not,” agreed Ned.

Fortunately the leader of the halted government infantry and artillery spoke English, so that Ned was able to explain to him his errand. Many and loud were the congratulations the Americans received on their bravery in daring to cross the[292] road. Such a deed was, in fact, beyond the comprehension of the Costavezans, brave enough though some of them were.

Ned noted with satisfaction that fully twenty machine guns and a good-sized body of infantry were scattered about under the trees. Their commanding officer explained coolly enough that he had ordered a halt till he heard from Colonel Lazard.

“But suppose he could not have communicated with you?” asked Ned.

“Then,” said the officer, with a shrug, “we should have had to remain here.”

“Nice sort of soldiers,” thought Ned.

But now that they had definite orders to advance on the hill, the troops became animated enough. In five minutes the guns were ready to be rushed into position, and the infantry was so arranged as to surround the precious implements of warfare and protect them.

Ned’s blood thrilled as the advance was sounded. That what was to come would be real warfare he had no doubt.
 
As the government troops advanced up the road, the expected happened. From the insurgent guns to the north a raking fire opened. The infantry surrounding the guns replied, but their fire was half-hearted. In fact, there was no object in wasting time and ammunition in retaliating. To gain the hill in the speediest possible time was the object of the dash.

“This is warm work, Herc!” exclaimed Ned, as they stumbled forward with the troops. Beside the Dreadnought Boy one of the infantrymen had just fallen, badly wounded. Ned picked him up and placed him on a gun carriage.

General de Guzman had been completely taken by surprise by the sudden move of the government troops. He had been depending on his guns to prevent communication between the two bodies, and thus hamper them till the expected ships arrived in the harbor below. The booming of their guns he intended to make the signal for his advance. Suddenly, from the harbor, there sounded a loud report.

Boom!
 
Its echoes clashed back against the hills. Ned and Herc looked seaward surprised. They were still more surprised when they saw, making for the harbor entrance, two vessels. One of them they recognized even at that distance as the Barrill. The other they guessed to be the De Barros.

“Hooray! Captain Gomez made good!” exclaimed Ned. “I’ll bet he’s got a prize crew on the De Barros now.”

And so it afterward proved. The plucky captain had made a night sortie on Santa Anna, lured the De Barros seaward, and, after a brief engagement, forced her surrender. Then, placing a prize crew on board, he started for Boca del Sierras. The gun they had heard was his salute of triumph. But de Guzman mistook the report for the approach of the insurgent navy, and at once gave orders to advance. His position was screened from a sight of the sea, so that his eyes had not fallen on the same spectacle as had the boys. Otherwise the command might never have been given.

Under a raking fire from the advancing insurgents,[295] the hill was gained at last. The guns were soon rushed to the summit. As they gained it, to the westward of the town firing began. Another small hill in that direction burst into smoke and flame. The heavy booming of the guns was distinctly borne to their ears.

The other section of the insurgent army was taking up the attack at that point. A short distance from the hill, de Guzman, seeing that it was impossible for him to cut off the government artillery, halted his troops. As a means of harassing the enemy by every means possible, he ordered a raking fire on the gunners, as they began to operate the machine guns. Man after man was mowed down as he worked at the guns. It began to look as if, after all, the Hill of the Ten Saints might become the scene of a disastrous rout. The native troopers, easily influ............