their guns; and they waited until it should clear away, that the firing might recommence.  A light air gradually swept the veil to leeward, and discovered both vessels to each other, at the distance of half a cable’s length.  Captain Oughton was with Newton on the poop, and the commander of the French corvette was standing on the hammock nettings of his own vessel.  The latter took off his hat, and courteously saluted his adversary.  Captain Oughton answered the salutation; and then waving his hat, pointed to the English colours, which had been hoisted at the main; as much as to say, “They never shall come down!” The Frenchman (it was Surcoeuf) did the same to the tricolour, and the action recommenced.

“Well done, my lads!” cried Captain Oughton; “well done! that broadside was a staggerer—­right into his ribs.  Hurrah now, my hearts of oak! this fellow’s worth fighting.  Aim at his foremast—­another broadside will floor it.  It’s on the reel.  Newton, jump forward, and—­”

But the order was stopped by a grape-shot, which struck Captain Oughton on the breast.  He staggered and fell off from the poop to the quarter-deck.  Newton leapt down, and went to him.  The torrents of blood from his breast at once told the tale:  and Newton called to some of the men, that his commander might be taken below.

“Wait a moment, my dear lad,” said Captain Oughton faintly, and catching his breath at every word; “it’s a finisher—­can’t come to time—­I die game.”  His head fell on his breast, and the blood poured out of his mouth.

Newton directed the body to be taken into the cuddy, that the men might not be dispirited by the sight.  He then hastened to the poop, that he might reconnoitre the enemy.  He perceived that the corvette had hauled on board his tattered courses, and was standing ahead of them.

“He’s off, sir,” cried one of the quarter-masters.

“I suspect not,” replied Newton, who had his glass to his eye, looking upon the decks of the French vessel.  “They are preparing to board, and will be round again in five minutes.  Cutlasses and pikes ready—­forward, my lads, all of us!  We must beat them off!”

“And will, too,” cried the seamen, as in obedience to their orders, they collected on the forecastle.  But they mustered thin; nearly half of the ship’s company were either lying dead or under the hands of the surgeon; and, as Newton surveyed his little force, fatigued as they were with their exertions, black with powder, stained with blood, and reeking with perspiration, he could not but acknowledge how heavy were the odds against the attack of a vessel so well manned as the corvette appeared to be.  Newton said but a few words; but they were to the point; and he had the satisfaction to perceive, as they grasped their cutlasses, that if their numbers were few and their frames exhausted, their spirit was as unsubdued as ever.