The engine-room gongs clang again, more revolutions are demanded and are forthcoming, and our four big battle-cruisers rush in pursuit with renewed energy. A distant humming sound increases quickly to a loud hissing and roaring--a noise which may be compared to that of a monster engine letting off steam--and an enormous projectile, passing well over our heads, plunges into the sea on the starboard beam of our following ship, the splash rising as high as the mastheads. Others follow fast. The rearmost ship loses her mainmast, and now the enemy's gunners reduce their elevation and slap their big shells into the sea just ahead of us. Our own guns are not idle. One after another gives tongue with a volume of noise and a concussion that no words can describe. The pen is powerless to bring before the imagination such a cataclysm of sound. On a sudden, amidst the crashing of the guns and the continuous dull booming of the enemy's in the distance, there is a different and a rending explosion somewhere forward. We have at last been hit. Down on the forecastle all is smoke, blackness, torn iron plates and girders. From the midst of the chaos comes the shriek of a man calling on his Maker, and piteous groanings. Soon the dull red of fire blushes through the smoke, and a rush of bluejackets and marines with fire-hoses spouting white streams of water engages this dread enemy and succeeds in subduing it. Stretcher-men appear on the scene and remove the wounded, but there is more than one serge-clad figure that lies heedless of fire or water, friend or foe. These are they who have fought their last fight and have laid down their lives and all that they had for their country. Inside the turrets the aspect of affairs is very different from what we saw a short time ago. The gun-layers are standing at their sights, the guns' crews are working levers to and fro, the big breech-blocks are swinging on one side, the huge pointed projectiles rising on their hydraulic hoists till they come in line with the bore of the gun. Another lever is pulled, and the rammer-head, hitherto somewhat in the background of the turret, advances towards the gun, impelled by what looks not unlike a monster bicycle chain crawling up from below, and stiffening itself as it advances along a horizontal trough of steel. The rammer-head meets the base of the big shell and drives it resistlessly and with no apparent effort into the gun. It retires; the charges of explosive, divided into sections and carried in cylinders which come in turn in line with the breech, are then one after the other pushed into place by the indefatigable rammer-head, the breech-block is swung to, turned and locked, and the gun is ready to fire again. * * * * *