ing himself of the perfection of the plan. And Pedro looked at the Sergeant; as if hypnotised he stepped closer, in long, feline strides, coming suddenly at far intervals, his whole lithe body a-quiver. For there, in the eyes of the Sergeant, the caybigan, growing stronger, clearer, more certain every moment, there it shone, his Desire, the form and shape at last of his obscure torturing desire. It was that—that which shone in the eyes of the Sergeant as he contemplated the perfection of the plot—it was that he longed for, thirsted for, that which he must have himself, absolutely, to guard and treasure and cherish. It was there, the torturing want of his entrails, there, but not his, not his yet.
Back in his hut that night, after hours of obscure battling, he named it at last. "Magtaca," he said, with heavy finality; "magtaca—admiration."
And then instantly he leaped to the next step.
"For the enemy, magtaca; for the caybigan, alipusta."
He hissed out the last word like an expectoration.
Yes, that was it:—for the enemy, admiration; for him, the friend, the servitor, the caybigan, contempt.
Pedro slid down to the big net below. And long in the dim light of his little lamp he oiled and cleaned and polished and caressed.
