We are now in full view of the enemy's squadron, which consists of five large armoured cruisers. Two of these are in a bad way. One on our starboard bow has lost two out of her three funnels as well as a mast. She is barely moving through the water, and has a strong list to port, which is so pronounced as to prevent her elevating her guns, whose projectiles all strike the water short of us, though we are at comparatively close range. Only two or three of her larger pieces are able to fire at all, and these but at intervals. Her foremost turret is nothing but a chaos of broken metal from the midst of which a pair of mutilated cannon point forlornly skyward. The midships turret nearest to us is in hardly better case. Her superstructures look like the ruins of a town after an earthquake, and several large holes gape in her sides. A dense black smoke sweeps upwards from the midst of the wreckage. About half a mile ahead of her a consort is also stationary and on fire, the flames driving away in sheets to leeward. The ship that followed us as second in the line is very badly damaged also, and is just discernible on the horizon astern under a pall of smoke. These casualties leave us evenly matched--three to three--with plenty of fight left in us, but with the volume and efficiency of our fire considerably reduced. Our own funnels are still standing, but riddled like collanders, the fore-bridge has been swept away, and with it our dear old skipper; but his place has been ably filled by the commander, who is fighting the ship from the conning-tower, which still stands. Both squadrons--the German in line ahead, ours in bow and quarter line--are heading due east, but, just as we are abreast the badly damaged cruiser to which I have referred, the enemy begins edging away to the north-east. We fail to see the significance of this manoeuvre at first, and the admiral, who, though rather badly hurt by the fall of the fore-bridge, is still in the conning-tower with the commander, may have visions of "crossing their T" astern, when there is a sudden shout from aloft. A man is leaning over and gesticulating wildly from the control-platform and pointing towards our starboard bow. There, not far from the burning enemy ship, the glass shows three pairs of what look like black cricket-stumps. Simultaneously there is a gleam in the sea alongside, like the white of a shark's belly when he turns to seize his prey. The deadly torpedo had missed us by a couple of feet.