“This looks like the very thing, Bolt,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “What else did you find on board?” Bolt said that he had found three dead men, two on the after-deck and one lying at the bottom of the open hold with the bare end of the foresheet in his hand--“shot down, I suppose, just as he had let it go,” he commented. He described the appearance of the bodies and reported that he had disposed of them according to orders. In the tartane’s cabin there was half a demijohn of wine and a loaf of bread in a locker; also, on the floor, a leather valise containing an officer’s uniform coat and a change of clothing. He had lighted the lamp and saw that the linen was marked “E. Réal.” An officer’s sword on a broad shoulder-belt was also lying on the floor. These things could not have belonged to the old chap with the white hair, who was a big man. “Looks as if somebody had tumbled overboard,” commented Bolt. Two of the bodies looked nondescript, but there was no doubt about that fine old fellow being a seaman. “By heavens!” said Captain Vincent, “he was that! Do you know, Bolt, that he nearly managed to escape us. Another twenty minutes would have done it. How many wounds had he?” “Three I think, sir. I did not look closely,” said Bolt. “I hated the necessity of shooting brave men like dogs,” said Captain Vincent. “Still, it was the only way; and there may be something here,” he went on, slapping the package with his open palm, “that will justify me in my own eyes. You may go now.” Captain Vincent did not turn in, but only lay down fully dressed on the couch till the officer of the watch, appearing at the door, told him that a ship of the fleet was in sight away to windward. Captain Vincent ordered the private night signal to be made. When he came on deck the towering shadow of a line-of-battle ship that seemed to reach to the very clouds was well within hail and a voice bellowed from her through a speaking-trumpet: “What ship is that?” “His Majesty’s sloop _Amelia_,” hailed back Captain Vincent. “What ship is that, pray?” Instead of the usual answer, there was a short pause, and another voice spoke boisterously through the trumpet: “Is that you, Vincent? Don’t you know the _Superb_ when you see her?” “Not in the dark, Keats. How are you? I am in a hurry to speak the Admiral.” “The fleet is lying by,” came the voice, now with painstaking distinctness, across the murmurs, whispers and splashes of the black lane of water dividing the two ships. “The Admiral bears S.S.E. If you stretch on till daylight as you are, you will fetch him on the other tack in time for breakfast on board the _Victory_. Is anything up?” At every slight roll the sails of the _Amelia_, becalmed by the bulk of the seventy-four, flapped gently against the masts. “Not much,” hailed Captain Vincent. “I made a prize.” “Have you been in action?” came the swift inquiry. “No, no. Piece of luck.”