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He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of trees at the back of the Married Quarters till Cris came to him, and, the preliminary kisses being given and taken, Lew began to explain the situation. "I'm goin' to the Front with the Reg'ment," he said valiantly. "Piggy, you're a little liar," said Cris, but her heart misgave her, for Lew was not in the habit of lying.
The Irishman's broad face was very grave; his reckless merry eye fixed Galliard with a look of sorrow, and this grey-haired, sinning soldier of fortune, who had never known a conscience, muttered softly: "It is not a nice thing you contemplate, Cris." Despite himself, Galliard winced, and his glance fell before Hogan's.
In those days you might help yourself to a capon, a horse, a wench, or any other trifle of the enemy's, without ever a word of censure or a question asked. Why, man, it is but two days since His Majesty had a poor devil hanged at Kendal for laying violent hands upon a pullet. Pox on it, Cris, my gorge rises at the thought!
"0' course I am, but th' other's more comfortable. Wait till you've growed a bit, Piggy. You aren't no taller than me now." "I've bin in the Army for two years, an' I'm not goin' to get out of a chanst o' seein' service, an' don't you try to make me do so. I'll come back, Cris, an' when I take on as a man I'll marry you marry you when I'm a Lance." "Promise, Piggy."
The Moro cris, the wooden guns and bamboo cannons and home-made powder used in 'em by the insurgent army with the rough machinery used in makin' it. Wanderin' on you see the nita huts of the Visayans, big handsome fellows they are and pretty refined wimmen, and hear their weird melodies as they are at work making their beautiful bamboo furniture, and weaving their handsome blankets, etc.
Lew reflected on the future as arranged by Jakin a short time previously, but Cris's mouth was very near to his own. "I promise, s'elp me Gawd!" said he. Cris slid an arm round his neck. "I won't 'old you back no more, Piggy. Go away an' get your medal, an' I'll make you a new button-bag as nice as I know how," she whispered.
"Excuse me, Mr. Amos Judson, but I'm not to thim straits yit. Not yit. I've a little bank account an' a good name at Cris Mead's bank. Most as good as yours." The shot went home. Judson had but recently failed to get the bank's backing in a business dealing he had hoped to carry through on loans, and it had cut his vanity deeply.
She hath, moreover, a taste for dalliance, and my brave looks and martial trappings did for her what her bold eyes had done for me. We were becoming the sweetest friends, when, like an incarnate fiend, that loutish clown, her lover, sweeps down upon us, and, with more jealousy than wit, struck me struck me, Harry Hogan! Soul of my body, think of it, Cris!"
The queen was singing, and the tones of her soulful voice resound still in my heart. The song was this: 'Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupiere, Tes cris me dechirent le coeur: Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre mere A bien assez de sa douleur. And while she sang she turned her head toward her son, who listened to her motionless and as if enchanted.
"Put some o' your 'air into it, Cris, an' I'll keep it in my pocket so long's I'm alive." Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. Public feeling among the drummer-boys rose to fever pitch and the lives of Jakin and Lew became unenviable.
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