The _Petropavlovsk_ was a first-class battle-ship of about 11,000 tons, with heavy armament of twelve-inch guns and secondary batteries. She had on board the admiral, the regular crew of 650 men, the Grand Duke Cyril, and, as a special guest, the famous painter Verestchagin. Makaroff, with several officers of high rank, having satisfied themselves that the ship was in no immediate danger, proceeding as she now was under good headway, toward her home port, with the Japanese fleet hull down in the offing, went below to breakfast. The Grand Duke and the great artist remained on the bridge with the commander of the flagship and its lieutenant. They scanned through their glasses the far-off pursuers, and the frowning forts on Golden Hill, and congratulated each other on the escape of the Russian squadron from the danger of annihilation by an immensely superior force. Not a man of them guessed the near presence of a peril, unseen beneath those waves, dimpling in the morning sunlight, more terrible than the whole array of Japanese battle-ships on the horizon. Verestchagin, then the greatest living painter of death on the battle-field, knew not that Death was at that moment gliding toward him; that he was taking his last look at the drifting clouds, the rippling sea, the blue hills of Manchuria. The _Petropavlovsk_ sped onward, but faster, beneath the waves, sped the _Octopus_, guided by the fierce eyes, the strong hand, the glowing heart and brain of the small brown man erstwhile cabin steward of the _Osprey_. Suddenly the great battle-ship quivered from stem to stern, as if she had struck upon a rock. The sea rose on the starboard side in a tremendous wave, and a roar like a broadside of a frigate filled the air, followed by a rattling, crashing discharge from the magazines. A huge gap appeared in the hull of the ship. A cataract of water poured in, and slowly turning upon her side, with one great, hissing gasp the _Petropavlovsk_ sank. The other ships of the squadron hastened to the spot, and almost before the fighting-tops of the battle-ship disappeared their boats were foaming across the water to pick up the survivors from the ill-fated vessel. The Grand Duke was saved, as were the lieutenant, two other officers, and about fifty sailors. Every other man went to the bottom. Never again would the guns of Russia boom out their noisy salute to the gallant admiral; and Verestchagin had made his last great study of Death. [Illustration: THE SINKING OF THE PETROPAVLOVSK.] CHAPTER XV. UNDER THE RED CROSS.