A sort of platform had been erected
around the flag-staff and on it a drunken little habitant was talking
treason. Without a word, Ferrol stepped upon the platform, and,
loosening the rope, dropped the tricolour half-way down the staff before
his action was quite comprehended by the crowd. Presently a hoarse shout
proclaimed the anger and consternation of the habitants.
"Leave that flag alone," shouted a dozen voices. "Leave it where it is!"
others repeated with oaths.
He dropped it the full length of the staff, whipped it off the string,
and put his foot upon it. Then he unrolled the bundle which he had
carried under his arm. It was the British flag. He slipped it upon the
string, and was about to haul it up, when the drunken orator on the
platform caught him by the arm with fiery courage.
"Here, you leave that alone: that's not our flag, and if you string it
up, we'll string you up, bagosh!" he roared.
Ferrol's heavy walking-stick was in his right hand. "Let go my arm-
quick!" he said quietly.
He was no coward, and these people were, and he knew it. The habitant
drew back.
"Get off the platform," he said with quiet menace.
He turned quickly to the crowd, for some had sprung towards the platform
to pull him off.
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