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!”

Forward danced and reeled the “Yanki” baiters below, until they were under the balcony where the little group of Americans sheltered and raged silently.  There the orator again spewed forth his contempt upon the alien banner, and again the ranks behind him shrieked their approval of the affront.  Miss Polly Brewster, American of Americans, whose great-grandfathers had fought with Herkimer and Steuben,—­themselves the sons of women who had stood by the loopholes of log houses and caught up the rifles of their fallen pioneer husbands, wherewith to return the fire of the besieging Mohawks,—­ran forward to the railing, snatching her skirt from the detaining grasp of her father.  In the corner stood a huge bowl of roses.  Gathering both hands full, she leaned forward and flung them, so that they fell in a shower of loveliness upon the insulted flag of her nation.