And it was true.  The Frenchman had ceased to fire, and was intent only upon clapping on every sail that he could carry.  But that shouting hundred could not claim it all as their own.  As the smoke cleared it was not difficult to see the reason.  The ships had gained the mouth of the estuary during the fight, and there, about four miles out to sea, was the Leda’s consort bearing down under full sail to the sound of the guns.  Captain de Milon had done his part for one day, and presently the Gloire was drawing off swiftly to the north, while the Dido was bowling along at her skirts, rattling away with her bow-chasers, until a headland hid them both from view.

But the Leda lay sorely stricken, with her mainmast gone, her bulwarks shattered, her mizzen-topmast and gaff shot away, her sails like a beggar’s rags, and a hundred of her crew dead and wounded.  Close beside her a mass of wreckage floated upon the waves.  It was the stern-post of a mangled vessel, and across it, in white letters on a black ground, was printed, “The Slapping Sal.”

“By the Lord! it was the brig that saved us!” cried Mr. Wharton.  “Hudson brought her into action with the Frenchman, and was blown out of the water by a broadside!”

The little captain turned on his heel and paced up and down the deck.

Already his crew were plugging the shot-holes, knotting and splicing and mending.  When he came back, the lieutenant saw a softening of the stern lines about his eyes and mouth.

“Are they all gone?”

“Every man.  They must have sunk with the wreck.”

The two officers looked down at the sinister name, and at the stump of wreckage which floated in the discoloured water.  Something black washed to and fro beside a splintered gaff and a tangle of halliards.  It was the outrageous ensign, and near it a scarlet cap was floating.

“He was a villain, but he was a Briton!” said the captain at last.  “He lived like a dog, but, by God, he died like a man!”

THE END.