"Thank you," Van Zandt returns, simply, and a moment after Miss Hathaway retires to her stateroom.
"Well, Manada," remarks Van Zandt, slapping the Cuban upon the back, "your first engagement as supercargo must be rated a success, eh? The arms and ammunition—the biggest single consignment ever sent from the States, I think you said—have been safely delivered into the hands of the insurgents, without the loss of a single Winchester or cartridge. Why this pensive look?"
"Only thoughts of the past, senor. I was"
What were Don Manada's thoughts will never be known, for the people on the yacht are electrified by the hail from the bridge, "Ship ahoy!" followed a second later by the additional information, "Dead ahead and bearing this way!"
"There is no special necessity for evading her now, whoever she is, I presume, sir?" inquires Capt. Beals, removing his glasses from his eyes.
"None whatever," is Van Zandt's prompt reply. "Our papers are straight and we have nothing contraband, unless it be the Don there. Let them look us over if they wish."
"She's not a very large craft," comments the taciturn executive officer of the yacht, as the two vessels continue to lessen the distance between them.
"Probably one of the blockading fleet," is Van Zandt's surmise.
He is evidently right, for the stranger at this point displays the Spanish flag and at the same time the report of a cannon echoes across the water.
"Show our colors," orders Van Zandt, and the flag of the great republic is caressed by the soft southern breeze. Another shot is fired from the Spaniard, and as the Semiramis slows up a third cloud of white floats from the side of the war vessel, followed by the sudden boom of a heavier gun.
As the Semiramis steams slowly toward the Spaniard, now distant less than a mile, a forth report is heard.
"Shotted, by heaven!" ejaculates Capt. Beals, his eyes glued to the glass; "and the Don has changed her course and is standing off to pepper us. He is one of those tin-
