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 polished steel and brass—all possess elements of interest to the girl.

That night, as she lays her head on her pillow, "rocked in the cradle of the deep," she suddenly starts as if from a dream. For there comes to her ears again, from somewhere, that melody strangely sweet, yet filled with subtle melancholy, the andante of her beloved sonata.

Then a light goes up, as the Germans have the saying, and Miss Hathaway understands now her blindly placed confidence in the master of the Semiramis. For Don Caesar de Bazan is Phillip Van Zandt and—and—

But what Miss Hathaway thinks about as Atlantic's waves lull her to slumber would certainly interest the young man who sits up far into the night, chatting and smoking with the "minister of war of the Cuban republic" while the Semiramis rushes on her eventful voyage to the tropics.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE FLAG OF CASTILE.

"Twelve hours from now, Miss Hathaway, you will have your first glimpse of Cuba. Then, our business transacted, a quick and uninterrupted run to Santiago, and tomorrow you will be on terra firma."

"It has been a remarkably short voyage, Mr. Van Zandt."

"Deplorably so. I never before regretted the speed of the Semiramis, but now—would that she were as snail-*like as the old West Indian tub we overhauled yesterday. Can I prevail upon you, Miss Hathaway, to again favor me with my pet Chopin nocturne? The electric fans render the saloon as comfortable as the deck."

"My poor playing is always at your service, Mr. Van Zandt. I assure you that I never expected to enjoy a voyage, to Cuba or elsewhere, as I have this. Your kindness in granting us—"