But I had no time for thoughts of revenge. Louder and louder swelled the cry ‘that we were sinking,’ and, as I laid the dead man’s head on the deck, I saw the carpenter hurry to the commodore with consternation depicted on every feature of his face. Instantly the cry arose, that he had sounded the pump-wells, and that all was over. The wildest confusion followed. More than a hundred of our prisoners were let loose by the master-at-arms, who imagined that all was over, and in a few minutes the deck was crowded with them. Had they then known their power, we should have been overpowered with ease, and, as I looked on their fierce faces, I trembled for the first time. To add to all, the gunner rushed, at this crisis, on deck, and not perceiving the commodore or the lieutenant, would have hauled down our flag, and failing in this—for the staff had been shot away—he cried out for quarter. Another second would have decided our fate, but springing aft, I shouted that we had not surrendered, and, at the same instant, the commodore re-appeared, and confirming my assertion, rallied his men hastily around him, and led them to repel a party of boarders, which taking advantage of our disorder, was, at this moment, clustering on our gunwale. The conflict here was short, but decisive. Fired anew by the words and example of their commodore, our brave fellows redeemed their momentary vacillation, and, aided by the men in the tops, hurled back the foemen, as if an avalanche had struck them, on the decks of their frigate. Meantime, the first lieutenant, availing himself of the fears of the prisoners, had mustered them at the pumps, and, arming another party with buckets, had succeeded in extinguishing the fire. The re-action, on the part of our crew, was decisive. The men now fought with a fury that nothing could suppress, for they knew over what a mine they hung, and that victory must be soon theirs, or they would lose all. Several guns were dragged over to the side against the foe, and the fire of our battery re-commenced with treble vigor. The top-men hailed down grenades on the frigate’s decks, and deafening volleys of musketry incessantly rattled from our forecastle. The enemy could hold out no longer. A man darted up the frigate’s hatchway, dashed aft, and the next moment the cross of Britain was at our feet. A cheer, that shook the very welkin, and which, dying away, was renewed and renewed again, burst from our brave tars, and rolling down to leeward announced our hard bought victory. ----- [1] The jib boom of the Serapis gave way, somewhere about this time. Perhaps this was the moment. Ed. * * * * * ISRAFEL.[2] BY EDGAR A. POE.