the firing ceased on both sides. Iberville let his ship drift on her
path, intent on a hand-to-hand fight aboard the Bridgwater Merchant; the
grappling-irons were ready, and as they drifted there was silence.

Every eye was strained. Suddenly a shape sprang out of the grey mist,
and the Maid of Provence struck. There was a crash of timbers as the
bows of the Swallow--it was she--were stove in, and then a wild cry.
Instantly she began to sink. The grappling-irons remained motionless on
the Maid of Provence. Iberville heard a commanding voice, a cheer, and
saw a dozen figures jump from the shattered bow towards the bow of his
own ship intent on fighting, but all fell short save one. It was a great
leap, but the Englishman made it, catching the chains, and scrambling on
deck. A cheer greeted him-the Frenchmen could not but admire so brave a
feat. The Englishman took no notice, but instantly turned to see his own
ship lurch forwards and, without a sound from her decks, sink gently down
to her grave. He stood looking at the place where she had been, but
there was only mist. He shook his head and a sob rattled in his throat;
his brave, taciturn crew had gone down without a cry. He turned and
faced his enemies. They had crowded forwards--Iberville, Sainte-Helene,
Perrot, Maurice Joval, and the staring sailors. He choked down his
emotion and faced them all like an animal at bay as Iberville stepped
forwards. Without a word Gering pointed to the empty scabbard at his
side.

"No, pardon me," said Iberville drily, "not as our prisoner, monsieur.
You have us at advantage; you will remain our guest."

"I want no quarter," said Gering proudly and a little sullenly.

"There can be no question of quarter, monsieur. You are only one