“It’s not that kind of a charm,” said Chesterton.  “Good-by, General.”

The road was hardly more than a trail, but the moon made it as light as day, and cast across it black tracings of the swinging vines and creepers; while high in the air it turned the polished surface of the palms into glittering silver.  As he plunged into the cool depths of the forest Chesterton threw up his arms and thanked God that he was moving toward her.  The luck that had accompanied him throughout the campaign had held until the end.  Had he been forced to wait for a transport, each hour would have meant a month of torment, an arid, wasted place in his life.  As it was, with each eager stride of El Capitan, his little Porto Rican pony he was brought closer to her.  He was so happy that as he galloped through the dark shadows of the jungle or out into the brilliant moonlight he shouted aloud and sang; and again as he urged El Capitan to greater bursts of speed, he explained in joyous, breathless phrases why it was that he urged him on.

“For she is wonderful and most beautiful,” he cried, “the most glorious girl in all the world!  And, if I kept her waiting, even for a moment, El Capitan, I would be unworthy—­and I might lose her!  So you see we ride for a great prize!”

The Spanish column that, the night before, had been driven from Adhuntas, now in ignorance of peace, occupied both sides of the valley through which ran the road to Mayaguez, and in ambush by the road itself had placed an outpost of two men.  One was a sharp-shooter of the picked corps of the Guardia Civile, and one a sergeant of the regiment that lay hidden in the heights.  If the Americans advanced toward Mayaguez, these men were to wait until the head of the column drew abreast of them, when they were to fire.  The report of their rifles would be the signal for those in the hill above to wipe out the memory of Adhuntas.

Chesterton had been riding at a gallop, but, as he reached the place where the men lay in ambush, he pulled El Capitan to a walk, and took advantage of his first breathing spell to light his pipe.  He had already filled it, and was now fumbling in his pocket for his match-box.  The match-box was of wood such as one can buy, filled to the brim with matches, for one penny.  But it was a most precious possession.  In the early days of his interest in Miss Armitage, as they were once setting forth upon a motor trip, she had handed it to him.

“Why,” he asked.

“You always forget to bring any,” she said simply, “and have to borrow some.”

The other men in the car, knowing this to be a just reproof, laughed sardonically, and at the laugh the girl had looked up in surprise.  Chesterton, seeing the look, understood that her act, trifling as it was, had been sincere, had been inspired simply by thought of his comfort.  And he asked himself why young Miss Armitage should consider his comfort, and why the fact that she did consider it should make him so extremely happy.  And he decided it must be because she loved him and he loved her.