With startling suddenness lurid flames were belching from her decks. Spurts of red-tinged smoke eddied from her open scuttles. In a few seconds she was a mass of fire from bow to stern. Slowly she drifted down-stream. At intervals her stern hung up in the mud, till, caught by the current, she would swing round and slide away from the bank. The flames reached well above her mastheads, yet there was comparatively little smoke. The roar of the devouring elements out-voiced every other sound, even the terrified noises of the denizens of the mangrove forests as they fled from the glare that rivalled that of the sun. From the conning-tower Stirling ordered a shot to be fired from one of the huge turret-guns, but before the muzzle could be depressed a stupendous explosion shook sky, land, and water. Denbigh, gripping the bridge rail, felt himself borne backwards by the furious rush of air. Temporarily blinded by the vividness of the flash, he was dimly aware of a series of crashes above and below him. The stanchion rails snapped off short. In vain the sub strove to regain his balance; he subsided heavily against the side of the chart-room, stunned by the terrific thunder-clap that followed the explosion. Intense darkness succeeded the vivid brightness of the prolonged flash. The searchlights of the _Crustacean_ had failed. Slowly Denbigh sat up. He became aware that debris was littering the partly wrecked bridge. In vain he tried to pierce the darkness and discern the whereabouts of his companions. A hot, pungent smoke drifted past, causing him to splutter almost to suffocation. Someone tripped across his legs. It was Stirling emerging from the conning-tower. He recognized the sub's very forcible language. "Hold on," cautioned Denbigh, "or you'll be overboard. The bridge has gone to blazes." As he spoke the _Crustacean_ shuddered. Her bows rose slightly. With her hull still quivering under the pulsations of her engines she had run aground on a mud-bank on the port-hand side of the river. Treading warily Stirling groped till he found the engine-room telegraph. Guessing the position of the lever he ordered "Stop". In the pitch-dark engine-room, for every electric lamp in the ship had been shattered, the artificers, facing death amidst the whirring machinery, succeeded in carrying out his orders. Through the darkness came muttered exclamations and partly stifled groans. Down-stream the _Paradox's_ siren, for want of better means of communication, was wailing in long and short blasts. "I have brought up to starboard," was the message. "You may feel your way past me." "There's no may about it," thought Stirling grimly; then, leaning on the twisted bridge rails, he shouted in stentorian tones: "The hands will fall in on the port side of superstructure facing outboard. Bugler!" "Sir!" replied a boyish voice through the impenetrable gloom--a voice without a tremor save of excitement. "Sound the 'Still'."