Close to the wreck of the United States’ once proud battleship Maine passed the Fern. Standing on deck, General Lee and his immediate party had bared their heads in silent respect and grief for the two hundred and sixty-six sailors whom Spanish treachery had destroyed. General Lee believed that he had succeeded in bringing the last American away. He certainly had, so far as he knew. He had done his duty like an American. Yet, all unknown to him, one American remained behind--Hal Maynard, the boy who now stood watching the receding Fern with a look of mingled anxiety and wistfulness. Suddenly Hal uncovered. His glance had rested on the Stars and Stripes at the steamer’s stern. It was a courageous thing to do--to salute the hated Yankee flag in this stronghold of that flag’s bitterest enemies. But Hal did it, without bluster or hesitation. There was a choking sensation in the boy’s throat; tears glistened in his eyes. “My country’s flag,” he murmured brokenly. “May God always bless your folds, and protect them! May those Stars and Stripes soon come back here, and float a supreme warning that treachery and tyranny can never flourish in the New World!” It may be that some of the Spaniards grouped about him heard him. If so, they did not understand, or it would have been worse for this American boy. “The senor does not like our climate!” Jeeringly the words were uttered. Half turning, Maynard gazed unto the speaker’s eyes. The latter was a Spaniard, a peon or laborer. Ragged, barefooted, dirty, he had the appearance of a man half-starved. The fellow’s tattered sombrero rested at an angle on his head. His gleaming, glittering eyes, made brighter by that nondescript illness, slow starvation, had an ugly light in them. In whatever direction Maynard turned he saw others like this fellow--thousands of them. Every wharf and pier, every building near the water front, every available spot of view was crowded by Spaniards who had come out to watch the departure of America’s consul general, and, watching, to jeer. It was no use to gaze longer after the Fern, yet Hal Maynard found himself unable to stir. “If I never see the flag again, I must see it to the last to-day,” he murmured. “Senor does not like our climate?” again jeered the fellow at his elbow. Hal made no answer, not even turning this time. But his tormentor would not quit. “Perhaps it is our people that the senor does not like? I have heard that there were some Americans who do not love the Spanish!” Still Hal stood with his eyes fastened on the flag. “If the senor is a good friend of Spain,” continued the fellow, with mocking insinuation, “he will shout, ‘viva Espana!’” Long live Spain? Hal Maynard would have died a dozen deaths sooner than utter such a detestable wish! Those black, gleaming eyes were fastened on him pitilessly, until--until the tormentor found himself ignored. Then he swiftly turned to his fellow Spaniards. “Here is an American!” he cried.