No man in the company had stood fire as valiantly as he. He courted
the whiz of the bullet, scoffed at the rigours of the march, and
instinctively was a good shot with the rifle. He bore no grudge
against the department at home; he had no grievance.

The officers recognised in him a man of parts, a man of station far
above the position which he had chosen in the army. He was a source
of mystery to the men of his own rank in the line-the ploughboys,
the teamsters, the roustabouts, and the ne'erdowells who had gone
into the army from choice or discretion. At first they had called
him the "dude," and had laughed at his white hands and clean jaws.
His indifference to their taunts annoyed them. One day he knocked
down the biggest bully of the lot and walked away without even
waiting to see whether he could arise after the blow. He simply
glared at the next man who chaffed. It was enough. The company held
him in a new respect that forbade the reporting of the incident to
the officer of the day.

Every night before he lay down to sleep, In the rice field or the
barrios, he took from his pocket a leather case and gazed at the
small portrait it sheltered. No one had been permitted to see him
in his devotions, for that was what he called these sacred moments.
His lean face, full of fierce energy all day long, softened as his
eyes devoured the dainty miniature.

On meeting their company, Connell reported the situation ahead,
to his superior officer; orders were given for the men to bivouac
for the night in a small village close at hand. That evening Bansemer
was discovered leaning against the corner of a nipa shack some