“It is true,” he said, “that I am fleeing the country. But, receive the assurance that I care very little for that. Courts and camps everywhere are open to Sabas Placido. _Vaya!_ what is this molehill of a republic—this pig’s head of a country—to a man like me? I am a _paisano_ of everywhere. In Rome, in London, in Paris, in Vienna, you will hear them say: ‘Welcome back, Don Sabas.’ Come!—_tonto_—baboon of a boy—admiral, whatever you call yourself, turn your boat. Put us on board the _Salvador_, and here is your pay—five hundred _pesos_ in money of the _Estados Unidos_—more than your lying government will pay you in twenty years.” Don Sabas pressed a plump purse against the youth’s hand. The admiral gave no heed to the words or the movement. Braced against the helm, he was holding the sloop dead on her shoreward course. His dull face was lit almost to intelligence by some inward conceit that seemed to afford him joy, and found utterance in another parrot-like cackle. “That is why they do it,” he said—“so that you will not see the guns. They fire—oom!—and you fall dead. With your face to the wall. Yes.” The admiral called a sudden order to his crew. The lithe, silent Caribs made fast the sheets they held, and slipped down the hatchway into the hold of the sloop. When the last one had disappeared, Don Sabas, like a big, brown leopard, leaped forward, closed and fastened the hatch and stood, smiling. “No rifles, if you please, dear admiral,” he said. “It was a whimsey of mine once to compile a dictionary of the Carib _lengua_. So, I understood your order. Perhaps now you will—” He cut short his words, for he heard the dull “swish” of iron scraping along tin. The admiral had drawn the cutlass of Pedro Lafitte, and was darting upon him. The blade descended, and it was only by a display of surprising agility that the large man escaped, with only a bruised shoulder, the glancing weapon. He was drawing his pistol as he sprang, and the next instant he shot the admiral down. Don Sabas stooped over him, and rose again. “In the heart,” he said briefly. “_Señores_, the navy is abolished.” Colonel Rafael sprang to the helm, and the other officer hastened to loose the mainsail sheets. The boom swung round; _El Nacional_ veered and began to tack industriously for the _Salvador_. “Strike that flag, señor,” called Colonel Rafael. “Our friends on the steamer will wonder why we are sailing under it.” “Well said,” cried Don Sabas. Advancing to the mast he lowered the flag to the deck, where lay its too loyal supporter. Thus ended the Minister of War’s little piece of after-dinner drollery, and by the same hand that began it. Suddenly Don Sabas gave a great cry of joy, and ran down the slanting deck to the side of Colonel Rafael. Across his arm he carried the flag of the extinguished navy.