Four hours later six powerful black oarsmen rowed a boat containing two passengers and practically no luggage out across the huge lazy swells of the Caribbean toward a smudge of black smoke. “Look!” cried that one of the passengers who wore huge goggles. “There goes the flag!” A square of yellow bunting slid slowly up the pierhead staff of the dock corporation, and spread in the light shore breeze. “That’s the modern flaming sword,” he continued. “The color stirs something inside me. Ugly, isn’t it?” “It is ugly,” she confessed thoughtfully. “Yet it’s the flag we fight under, too, isn’t it? And we’d fight for it if we had to, just as we fought for the other—our own.” “I love your ‘we,’” he laughed happily. She nestled closer to him. “Are you still hating the Caribbean?” “I? I’m loving it the second-best thing in the world.” “But I loved it first,” she reminded him jealously. “Dearest,” she added, with one of her swift swoops of thought, “what was that funny title the British Secretary of Legation had?” “What? Oh, Captain the Honorable Carey Knowles?” “Yes. Well, I shall have a much nicer, more picturesque title than that when we come back to Caracuña—dear, dirty, dangerous, queer, riotous, plague-stricken old Caracuña!” “Then my liege ladylove intends to come back?” he asked. “Of course. Some time. And in Caracuña I shall insist on being Mrs. the Unspeakable Perk.” THE END