for it struck deep into the hearts of soldiers who had scoffed at
the life-blood of man, but could not brave the tears of a woman.

Bansemer did all in his power to comfort and console her. It was
to him that she clung in her despair. He had been her captor; and
yet it had been he who stood forth in his might to defend her and
the loved one who was dead. At nightfall the dead were buried in
that far-off wilderness, their humble graves marked and recorded
before the time when the government could come to give other graves
in other lands to these who had given their lives. Velasquez was
laid beside the Americans. Teresa, a shivering, sobbing little
figure in the garb of an insurgent soldier, was supported by big
Graydon Bansemer. There was no service except the short army ritual;
there was no priest or pastor; there was but one real mourner--a
pretty, heart-broken girl who lay for hours beside the rude mound
on the hillside.

Word came back at nightfall that the detachments were to form
a junction at one of the big villages westward in two days. The
instructions were that the wounded Filipinos should be left in the
village, where native women and doctors would care for them.

"What in thunder are we to do with the girl?" was the question that
came from the officer in command. More than one man scratched his
head thoughtfully and looked toward the disturbing element that
had come into the army. She was sitting alone and disconsolate in
front of the church.

"There's no way to send her back to her friends, and we can't leave
her here," said Bansemer.