tive drivers what they were doing, and he replied in
pigeon English that they were collecting loot for the Rev. Dr. Amen.
Farther on some of their own soldiers were conducting an auction of
handsome vases and carved ornaments. Sam watched the sale for a few
minutes, and bought in one or two beautiful objects for a song for
Marian.

"Where did they get all this stuff?" he asked of a lieutenant.

"Oh, anywhere. Some of it from the houses of foreign residents even.
But we don't understand the game as well as old Amen. He's a corker.
He's grabbed the house of one of his old native enemies here, an
awfully rich chap, and sold him out, and now he's got his converts
cleaning out a whole ward. He's collected a big fine for every convert
killed and so much extra for every dollar stolen, and he's going to use
it all for the propagation of the Gospel. He's as good as a Tutonian,
he is."

"I'm glad we have such a man to represent our faith," said Sam.

"He's pretty hard on General Taffy, tho," said the lieutenant. "He says
we ought to have the Tutonian mailed fist. Taffy is much too soft, he
thinks."

Sam bit his lips. He could not criticize his superior officer before a
subaltern, but he was tempted to.

On reaching headquarters Sam found that he was to take charge of a
punitive expedition in the North, whose chief object was to be the
destruction of native temples, for the purpose of giving the
inhabitants a lesson. He was to have command of his own regiment, two
companies of cavalry, and a field-battery. They were to set out in two
days. He spent the intermediate time in completing the preparations,
which had been well under way before his arrival, and in studying the
map. No one knew how much opposition he might expect.

It was early in the morning on a hot summer day that the expedition
left the Capital. Sam was mounted on a fine bay stallion, and felt that
he was entirely in his element.

"What camp is that over there on the left?" he asked his orderly.

"That's the Anglian camp, sir."

"Are you sure. I can't see their colors. They must have moved their
camp."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure. I passed near there last night and I saw
half-a-dozen of the men blacking their officers' boots and singing,
'Britons, Britons, never will be slaves!' It must be a tough job too,
sir, for everybody's boots are covered with blood. The gutters are
running with it."

"I wish we had them with us