Several moments passed in perfect silence, broken only by the roar of the sea around us, and the great plunges of the Spanish ship, as she came careering and wallowing over the waves. We looked back, and saw her bows clustered with men, and standing upon the bowsprit, with his arm round a stay, we could discern the figure of an officer, with a very brave uniform, and holding a trumpet in his hand. Presently this officer passed his trumpet to a man who stood by him, and who at once hailed in good English. We all heard his words, for they echoed loudly between the sails of the two ships. ‘Surrender,’ he said, ‘or we will run the frigate over you.’ ‘Stand by your sheets, men,’ said Captain Jem, softly; ‘and never fear for all I do, that we are going to run our necks into Spanish hemp this cruise.’ ‘Do you surrender?’ hailed the Spaniard once more. There was now not a hundred feet between the man-of-war’s jib and our taffrail rail. It was fearful to see the great ship, like a moving steeple, rushing down upon us, and, despite of myself, I felt my teeth grinding against each other. I looked back once more, there was the mighty prow, clustered with men, frowning above us, and ploughing the sea into a great furrow of foam. That ship could crush our schooner as a rock would smash a pipkin. Yet no muscle quivered in Captain Jem’s face. All at once he sung out, sharp and quick— ‘Nicky, strike the flag.’ The Spanish man-of-war rose upon a great sea, heaving her bows out of the water almost to her keel. The next moment she would be crushing down bodily upon our deck. Just then the red-cross ensign disappeared from the mast-head, and Captain Jem, turning round, took off his hat. The officer on the bowsprit of the great ship immediately shouted, and as he spoke the vast bows gave a sudden sweep to the port or larboard side, almost shaving our taffrail as they grazed past. ‘Now, then!’ roared Captain Jem, ramming down the tiller hard a port. ‘Sheets, boys, mind your sheets—in with them—in with the larboard sheets. Hurrah, boys, hurrah! show the Don that he must shut his claws quick, or we will slip through his fingers.’ The words had not been spoken when the Will-o’-the-Wisp flew round like a top, in the opposite direction to that of the Spaniard, plunging down into one tremendous sea, taking tons upon tons of the glancing green water over her weather bow, and then lying over to the wind, until the washing seas rose up to the very centre of her deck. Of course the studding-sail-booms snapped like pipe-stems, and the sails they supported burst away and floated down to leeward. But for this we cared very little. ‘If the spars stand it we’re safe,’ shouted the Captain to me.