Down came the _Pride_. She would not be denied. One wild cheer, one more terrible broadside as her guns almost touched those of the enemy, then grappling irons were thrown, and the vessels literally lashed together. "Away, boarders!" "Hurrah, lads!" The last shout came from bold young Grant Mackenzie, as sword in hand, and followed by the men who had so bravely fought his guns, he sprang nimbly across the bulwarks and leaped down amongst the foe. To describe the _mêlée_ that followed would be impossible--the shouts of victory and shrieks of pain, the cracking of pistols, the clashing of sword and cutlass, the shivering of pikes, the rattle of musketry from the tops. It was all like a terrible dream to every one concerned in it; for each British sailor or marine seemed to fight but for himself. Then there were the final stampede, the hauling down of the flag, and the surrender of the wounded captain to Sir Sidney Salt. All must have passed in seven minutes or less. The loss on both sides was terrible to contemplate. Twenty of our brave lads would never fight again, thirty more were wounded, while in killed and wounded the enemy's loss was well-nigh one hundred. There was no time to lose now, however. The enemy's consort was but five or six miles off, and coming down hand over hand. So the Frenchmen were speedily disarmed. The dead were left where they lay, the wounded and prisoners hurried on board the _Pride_. Then a train was laid to the _Désespéré's_ magazine, and just as all sail was hoisted on board the British frigate, the time fuse was lighted. The _Pride_ must fly now; to fight another ship, lumbered as she was with wounded and prisoners, would have been insanity. On comes the enemy's consort. Away flies the _Ocean Pride_. The men on the British ship still stand to their guns; for if they are overhauled, they mean to fight and fall. But see, the two French frigates are now abreast, and the consort hauls her main-yard aback, and an armed boat leaves her side. Nearer and nearer she rows. Those that behold her on board the _Pride_ hold their breath. They know she is rowing to destruction. It is awful, and even brave Sir Sidney turns a little as the boat reaches the doomed ship, and the men are seen clambering up her sides. At that dreadful moment a huge cloud of smoke, balloon shaped, rises high above the _Désespéré_, a sheet of flame shoots into the air, and yards, and masts, and spars, and men are seen high above all. A sound far louder than thunder shakes the _Pride_ from stern to stern. Sir Sidney presses his hand to his eyes and holds it there for a time. When he takes it away at last the _Désespéré_ has gone. A few blackened spars bob here and there on the waves, and the cloud rolls far to leeward, but the silence of death is over all the scene. * * * * * Tom Fairlie sat late that night beside poor Jack's couch. Jack's brow was bound in blood-wet bandages, his eyes were closed.