“You’ll treat him with every courtesy,” he said. “The only satisfaction he gets out of this is to see that he has hurt me. We will not give him that satisfaction.” But Marshall found that to conceal his wound was more difficult than he had anticipated. When, at tea time, on the deck of the war-ship, he again met Senator Hanley and the guests of the _Serapis_, he could not forget that his career had come to an end. There was much to remind him that this was so. He was made aware of it by the sad, sympathetic glances of the women; by their tactful courtesies; by the fact that Livingstone, anxious to propitiate Hanley, treated him rudely; by the sight of the young officers, each just starting upon a career of honor, and possible glory, as his career ended in humiliation; and by the big war-ship herself, that recalled certain crises when he had only to press a button and war-ships had come at his bidding. At five o’clock there was an awkward moment. The Royal Mail boat, having taken on her cargo, passed out of the harbor on her way to Jamaica, and dipped her colors. Senator Hanley, abandoned to his fate, observed her departure in silence. Livingstone, hovering at his side, asked sympathetically: “Have they answered your cable, sir?” “They have,” said Hanley gruffly. “Was it—was it satisfactory?” pursued the diplomat. “It _was_,” said the senator, with emphasis. Far from discouraged, Livingstone continued his inquiries. “And when,” he asked eagerly, “are you going to tell him?” “Now!” said the senator. The guests were leaving the ship. When all were seated in the admiral’s steam launch, the admiral descended the accommodation ladder and himself picked up the tiller ropes. “Mr. Marshall,” he called, “when I bring the launch broadside to the ship and stop her, you will stand ready to receive the consul’s salute.” Involuntarily, Marshall uttered an exclamation of protest. He had forgotten that on leaving the war-ship, as consul, he was entitled to seven guns. Had he remembered, he would have insisted that the ceremony be omitted. He knew that the admiral wished to show his loyalty, knew that his old friend was now paying him this honor only as a rebuke to Hanley. But the ceremony was no longer an honor. Hanley had made of it a mockery. It served only to emphasize what had been taken from him. But, without a scene, it now was too late to avoid it. The first of the seven guns had roared from the bow, and, as often he had stood before, as never he would so stand again, Marshall took his place at the gangway of the launch. His eyes were fixed on the flag, his gray head was uncovered, his hat was pressed above his heart. For the first time since Hanley had left the consulate, he fell into sudden terror lest he might give way to his emotions. Indignant at the thought, he held himself erect. His face was set like a mask, his eyes were untroubled. He was determined they should not see that he was suffering.