Far from discouraged, Livingstone continued his inquiries.

"And when," he asked eagerly, "are you going to tell him?"

"Now!" said the senator.

The guests were leaving the ship. When all were seated in the
admiral's steam launch, the admiral descended the accommodation
ladder and himself picked up the tiller ropes.

"Mr. Marshall," he called, "when I bring the launch broadside to
the ship and stop her, you will stand ready to receive the consul's
salute."

Involuntarily, Marshall uttered an exclamation of protest. He had
forgotten that on leaving the war-ship, as consul, he was entitled
to seven guns. Had he remembered, he would have insisted that the
ceremony be omitted. He knew that the admiral wished to show his
loyalty, knew that his old friend was now paying him this honor
only as a rebuke to Hanley. But the ceremony was no longer an
honor. Hanley had made of it a mockery. It served only to emphasize
what had been taken from him. But, without a scene, it now was too
late to avoid it. The first of the seven guns had roared from the
bow, and, as often he had stood before, as never he would so stand
again, Marshall took his place at the gangway of the launch. His
eyes were fixed on the flag, his gray head was uncovered, his hat
was pressed above his heart.

For the first time since Hanley had left the consulate, he fell
into sudden terror lest he might give way to his emotions.