Decatur, you will see, was outnumbered three to one, but he did not stop for odds like that. He dashed boldly in, laid his vessel alongside the nearest gunboat of the enemy, poured in a volley, and gave the order to board. In an instant the Americans were over the bulwarks and on the foe. The contest was short and sharp. The captain of the Tripolitans fell dead. Most of his officers were wounded. The men, overcome by the fierce attack, soon threw down their arms and begged for quarter. Decatur secured them below decks and started for the next gunboat. On his way he was hailed from one of his own boats, which had been commanded by his brother James. The men told him that his brother had captured one of the gunboats of the enemy, but, on going on board after her flag had fallen, he had been shot dead by the treacherous commander. The murderer had then driven the Americans back and carried his boat out of the fight. On hearing this sad news, Decatur was filled with grief and rage. Bent on revenge, he turned his boat's prow and swiftly sped towards the craft of the assassin. The instant the two boats came together the furious Decatur sprang upon the deck of the enemy. At his back came Lieutenant McDonough and nine sturdy sailors. Nearly forty of the Moors faced them, at their head a man of gigantic size, his face half covered with a thick black beard, a scarlet cap on his head, the true type of a pirate captain. Sure that this was his brother's murderer, Decatur rushed fiercely at the giant Moor. The latter thrust at him with a heavy boarding pike. Decatur parried the blow, and made a fierce stroke at the weapon, hoping to cut off its point. He failed in this and his cutlass broke off at the hilt, leaving him with empty hands. With a lusty yell the Moor thrust again. Decatur bent aside, so that he received only a slight wound. Then he seized the weapon, wrested it from the hands of the Moor, and thrust fiercely at him. In an instant more the two enemies had clinched in a wrestle for life and death, and fell struggling to the deck. While they lay there, one of the Tripolitan officers raised his scimitar and aimed a deadly blow at the head of Decatur. It seemed now as if nothing could save the struggling American. Only one of his men was near by. This was a sailor named Reuben James, who had been wounded in both arms. But he was a man of noble heart. He could not lift a hand to save his captain, but his head was free, and with a sublime devotion he thrust it in the way of the descending weapon. Down it came with a terrible blow on his head, and he fell bleeding to the deck, but before the Tripolitan could lift his weapon again to strike Decatur, a pistol shot laid him low.