During the preceding thirty days the volume of immigration from Spain into France had kept an unbroken stream. On the 21st day of May, 1930, the appointed day of doom, a large share of the Spanish population had found its way across the border into France, and some of the provinces about Madrid, notably Segovia, Castille and Salamanca, were as innocent of population as the desert of Sahara is of cascades. On that memorable day of May, 1930, the cities of Spain might easily have been [Spanish Cities Two For a Cent.] bought up for a song or a jack lantern. Weyler and his ferocious cut-throats, (the same imps who blew up our Maine and martyred 266 brave American sailors), were the only beings who remained in Spain on that day of doom. The gang had the run of the kingdom for a few brief hours and were probably amusing themselves very much after the manner of rats who enjoy the exclusive privilege of a sinking ship. The Butcher and his satellites were holding high carnival in the regal apartments of the Royal Palace in doomed Madrid, when the ærial war craft of America, England and the Allied nations, silently stood guard and floated over the city, veritable angels of death, fearful to behold. The cellars of the Royal Palace had been ransacked and wines of the choicest vintage [Handwriting on the Wall.] were being guzzled by the Weyler brigands. Amidst revelry and shouting, and the din of rattling castenets, the mazes of fandangos were performed by voluptuous and sinuous Castillian sirens, from whose wild eyes blazed forth that baleful light, incited by wine and unholy passion. These dark, olive-skin belles in their terpsichores before the Butcher and his aides, were as innocent of habiliments as Madame Eve when that exalted personage made her début in Eden. In the midst of this debauchery, and while revelry was yet at its zenith, history again repeated itself. Suddenly, like a prolonged flash of lightning, the revelers saw distinctly the handwriting on the wall. It was an inscription that carried terror and consternation into the hearts of the Weylerites and read: "Remember the Maine." At this critical and interesting part of the program, Capt. Sigsbee, (then eighty-one years of age,) who in 1930 commanded the ærial warship "Maine," and who had been especially selected for that mission, gave the signal and from her kelson the ærial "Maine" dropped a little surprise package containing one hundred and thirty pounds of dynamite upon the Royal Palace of Spain. Weyler and his gang, one moment later, were roasting in company with their forefathers. Such, then, was the fate of Weyler, the destroyer of our noble "Maine," an [More Spanish Mules Killed.] arch fiend whose cruel orders were blindly obeyed by others of his ilk, carrying to unhappy Cuba a degree of misery, starvation and death that shocked the entire world.