The shell and shrapnel flew fast and furious from those little mountain
guns, accompanied by the music of the "Krags."
On and on, nearer and nearer up the hillside came the crash of advancing
troops, smothering other unseen trenches on their way, until by
nightfall there was not a rifle but could shove its muzzle into the very
face of the trench behind which the Moro warriors laid in waiting,
peering down the slope between the explosions for something they feared
more than the whistling fragments of Krupp shells--the blue-shirted form
of the silent American soldier, with whom the Moros knew the ultimate
issue rested.