this young--ah--bachelor."

"Don't go rotting me," complained Heywood, and his sallow cheeks turned
ruddy. "I merely bring up these points. And five is this: your
compound's very cramped, where the nunnery could shelter the goodly
blooming fellowship of native converts."

Chantel laughed heartily, and stretched his legs at ease under the
table.

[Illustration: Portuguese Nunnery:--Sketch Map.]

"What strategy!" he chuckled, preening his moustache. "Your mythical
siege--it will be brief! For me, I vote no to that: no rice-Christians
filling their bellies--eating us into a surrender!" He made a pantomime
of chop-sticks. "A compound full, eating, eating!"

One or two nodded, approving the retort. Heywood, slightly lifting his
chin, stared at the speaker coldly, down the length of their
council-board. The red in his cheeks burned darker.

"Our everlasting shame, then," he replied quietly. "It will be
everlasting, if we leave these poor devils in the lurch, after cutting
them loose from their people. Excuse me, padre, but it's no time to
mince our words. We made them strangers in their own land. Desert 'em?
Damned if we do!"

No one made reply. The padre, who had looked up, looked down quickly,
musing, and smoothed his white hair with big fingers that
somewhat trembled.

"Besides," continued the speaker, in a tone of apology, "we'll need 'em
to man the works. Meantime, you chaps must lend coolies, eh? Look here."
With rising spirits, he traced an eager finger along the map. "I must
run a good strong bamboo scaffold along the inside wall, with plenty of
sand-bags ready for loopholing--specially atop the servants' quarters
and pony-shed, and in that northeast angle, where we'll throw up a
mound or platform.--What do you say? Suggestions, please!"

Chantel, humming a tune, reached for his helmet, and rose. He paused,
struck a match, and in an empty glass, shielding the flame against the
breeze of the punkah, lighted a cigarette.

"Since we have appointed our dictator," he began amiably, "we may
repose--"

From the landing, without, a coolie bawled impudently for the master of
the house.

"Wutzler!" said Heywood, jumping up. "I mean--his messenger."

He was gone a noticeable time, but came back smiling.

"Good news, Gilly." He held aloft a scrap of Chinese paper, scrawled on
with pencil. "We need expect nothing these ten days. They wait for more
ammunition--'more shoots,' the text has it. The Hak Kau--their Bla