“That’s Urgante,” growled Cluff; “that devil with the flag.” “But he seems to be eulogizing it,” cried the girl. The orator had set down his bright burden, wedging it in the iron guard railing of a tree, and was now apostrophizing it with extravagant bows and honeyed accents in which there was an undertone of hiss. For confirmation, Miss Polly turned to the others. The first face her eyes fell on was that of the ball-player. Every muscle in it was drawn, and from the tightened lips streamed such whispered curses as the girl never before had heard. Next him stood the hermit, solid and still, but with a queer spreading pallor under his tan. In front of them Sherwen was crouched, scowlingly alert. The expression of Mr. Brewster and Carroll, neither of whom understood Spanish, betokened watchful puzzlement. Enlightenment burst upon them the next minute. From the motley crowd below rose a snarl of laughter and savage jeering, the object of which was unmistakable. “By G—d!” cried Mr. Brewster, straightening up and grasping the railing. “They’re insulting the flag!” “I’ve left my pistol!” muttered Carroll, white-lipped. “I’ve left my pistol!” Polly Brewster’s hand flew to her belt. She drew out the automatic and held it toward the Southerner. But it was not Carroll’s hand that met hers; it was the Unspeakable Perk’s. “No,” said he, and he flung the weapon back of him into the _patio_. “Oh! Oh!” cried the girl. “You unspeakable coward!” Carroll jumped forward, but Sherwen was equally quick. He interposed his slight frame. “Perkins is right,” he said decisively. “No shooting. It would be worth the life of every one here. We’ve got to stand it. But somebody is going to sweat blood for this day’s work!” The instinct of discipline, characteristic of the professional athlete, brought Cluff to his support. “What Mr. Sherwen says, goes,” he said, almost choking on the words. “We’ve got to stand it.” In the breast of Miss Polly Brewster was no response to this spirit. She was lawless with the lawlessness of unconquered youth and beauty. “Oh!” she breathed “If I had my pistol back, I’d shoot that _beast_ myself!” The scientist turned his goggles hesitantly upon her. “Miss Brewster,” he began, “please don’t think—” “Don’t speak to me!” she cried. Another clamor of derision sounded from the street as Urgante resumed the standard of his mockery and led his rabble forward. Behind the dull-colored mass appeared a spot of splendor. It was Von Plaanden, gorgeous in his full regalia, who had turned the corner, returning from the public reception. Well back of the mob, he pulled his horse up, and sat watching. The coincidence was unfortunate. It seemed to justify Sherwen’s bitter words:— “Come to _visa_ his work. There’s the Hochwaldian for you!”