Yet, all unknown to him, one American remained behind—Hal Maynard, the boy who now stood watching the receding Fern with a look of mingled anxiety and wistfulness.
Suddenly Hal uncovered. His glance had rested on the Stars and Stripes at the steamer’s stern.
It was a courageous thing to do—to salute the hated Yankee flag in this stronghold of that flag’s bitterest enemies.
But Hal did it, without bluster or hesitation.
There was a choking sensation in the boy’s throat; tears glistened in his eyes.
“My country’s flag,” he murmured brokenly. “May God always bless your folds, and protect them! May those Stars and Stripes soon come back here, and float a supreme warning that treachery and tyranny can never flourish in the New World!”
It may be that some of the Spaniards grouped about him heard him. If so, they did not understand, or it would have been worse for this American boy.
“The senor does not like our climate!”
Jeeringly the words were uttered.
Half turning, Maynard gazed unto the speaker’s eyes.