Standing on the deck of the _Warspite_, King Edward the Seventh looked at his watch. If in thirty-six minutes the _Esmeralda_ should sink beneath the waves, the navies of England, with those of all other powers, would be as obsolete for the purposes of attack or defense upon the high seas as the galleys of Cæsar, or the barge of Cleopatra. Another Trafalgar would be as impossible as another Actium. The little _Stromboli_ and _Etna_, carried in the hold of the _Siva_, could destroy every ironclad afloat. The latter vessel, with her immense speed, could keep out of range of the enemy’s guns, and she could send forth the torpedo boats and destroy ship after ship. She could pick up the torpedo boats, recharge their storage batteries, refit their magazines with potentite shells, and their tanks with compressed air, and send them forth again and proceed with such work of destruction until not a ship should live on any sea, except by license of the _Siva_, and subject to her rule. What revolutions and what changes would this dynamic exposition not precipitate upon the mistress of the seas? India would give her new emperor the choice between walking out and being potentited out, and Canada, and Australia, and every other colony, would be taking leave. And Ireland—well, here was a state of things! Ireland would have whatever Davitt, and McCarthy, and Dillon should agree upon asking, or else every British war ship would be blown up, and every Irishman who could raise the money, would try the effect of a balloon loaded with potentite, upon his friends across the channel. Of course, it was a game in which one could give blows as well as take them, but that is a very unequal game between an anarchist and a king. It looked as if King Edward might be compelled to “rustle” to keep the British crown on his royal brow. It might be well to look up a good cattle range in Colorado where he and nephew William, with the Hapsburgs, the Bourbons, and the Romanoffs might retire, should it be necessary. Among the stores of the _Esmeralda_ which had not been sent ashore was a decanter of brandy, which the baron found in the cabin, and to which he devoted himself so assiduously that when the whistles sounded, announcing that the torpedoes were fastened to the ship, he was, from the combined effects of past and present potations, in a condition closely bordering upon delirium tremens. The first officer proceeded to the cabin, where Von Eulaw and the baroness had withdrawn, and, attempting to open the door, found it locked. The voice of the baroness in a pleading tone was heard, followed by oaths and maniacal laughter from the baron. “The torpedoes are fastened to us, and in thirty-four minutes this ship will be in the air,” said the officer through the closed door. “Our orders are to leave the vessel ten minutes before the explosion. You had better go on board of the launch at once.”