That man has travelled to Ceylon for an orchid--to Patagonia for a headdress --to Benares for a slipper--to Mozambique for a spearhead to add to his famous collections. Thou knowest, also, ~amigo~ Rafael, that I have been a gatherer of curios. My collection of battle flags of the world's navies was the most complete in existence until last year. Then Herr Grunitz secured two, 0! such rare specimens. One of a Barberry state, and one of the Makarooroos, a tribe on the west coast of Africa. I have not those, but they can be procured. But this flag, senor--do you know what it is? Name of God! do you know?
See that red cross upon the blue and white ground! You never saw it before? ~Seguramente no~. It is the naval flag of your country.
~Mire!~ This rotten tub we stand upon is its navy--that dead cockatoo lying there was its commander--that stroke of cutlass and single pistol shot a sea battle. All a piece of absurd foolery, I grant you --but authentic. There has never been another flag like this, and there never will be another. No. It is unique in the whole world.
Yes. Think of what that means to a collector of flags! Do you know, ~Coronel mio~, how many golden crowns Herr Grunitz would give for this flag? Ten thousand, likely. Well, a hundred thousand would not buy it. Beautiful flag! Only flag! Little devil of a most heaven-born flag! ~O'he!~ old grumbler beyond the ocean. Wait till Don Sabas comes again to the Konigin Strasse. He will let you kneel and touch the folds of it with one finger. ~O-he!~ old spectacled ransacker of the world!"Forgotten was the impotent revolution, the danger, the loss, the gall of defeat. Possessed solely by the inordinate and unparalleled passion of the collector, he strode up and down the little deck, clasping to his breast with one hand the paragon of a flag. He snapped his fingers triumphantly toward the east. He shouted the paean to his prize in trumpet tones, as though he would make old Grunitz hear in his musty den beyond the sea.
They were waiting, on the ~Salvador~, to welcome them. The sloop came close alongside the steamer where her sides were sliced almost to the lower deck for the loading of fruit. The sailors of the ~Salvador~grappled and held her there.
Captain McLeod leaned over the side.
"Well, ~senor~, the jig is up, I'm told.""The jig is up?" Don Sabas looked perplexed for a moment. "That revolution--ah, yes!" With a shrug of his shoulders he dismissed the matter.
The captain learned of the escape and the imprisoned crew.
"Caribs!" he said; "no harm in them." He slipped down into the sloop and kicked loose the hasp of the hatch. The black fellows came tumbling up, sweating but grinning.
"Hey! black boys!" said the captain, in a dialect of his own; "you sabe, catchy boat and vamos back same place quick."They saw him point to themselves, the sloop and Coralio. "Yas, yas!"they cried, with broader grins and many nods.
The four--Don Sabas, the two officers and the captain--moved to quit the sloop. Don Sabas lagged a little behind, looking at the still form of the late admiral, sprawled in his paltry trappings.
"~Pobrecito loco~," he said softly.
He was a brilliant cosmopolite and a ~cognoscente~ of high rank;but, after all, he was of the same race and blood and instinct as this people. Even as the simple ~paisanos~ of Coralio had said it, so said Don Sabas. Without a smile, he looked, and said, "The poor little crazed one!"Stooping he raised the limp shoulders, drew the priceless and induplicable flag under them and over the breast, pinning it there with the diamond star of the Order of San Carlos that he took from the collar of his own coat.
He followed after the others, and stood with them upon the deck of the ~Salvador~. The sailors that steadied ~El Nacional~ shoved her off. The jabbering Caribs hauled away at the rigging; the sloop headed for the shore.
And Herr Grunitz's collection of naval flags was still the finest in the world.
