Twilight now invests the scene in gray, as the sun sinks behind the close, dark Irish headlands to the west. Night, cloudless and serene, comes down; the round, full moon shines out, and its mild rays mingle and merge with the angry glare of the battle-lanterns. Captain Paul Jones from his narrow quarterdeck watches the Drake through his night glass. “Good! Very good!” he murmurs, as the _Drake_‘s foremast is splintered by a round shot. Then, to the Salem man who has the wheel: “Bring us a little closer, Mr. Sargent; a little closer in, if you please.” Captain Paul Jones again rivets his glass upon the _Drake_. An exclamation escapes him. It comes upon him that his gunners are having advantage of the roll of the ships, and time their broadsides so as to catch the _Drake_ as, reeling to port, she brings up her starboard side. By this plausible manouvre, those sagacious ones who train the _Ranger_‘s guns are sending shot after shot through and through the _Drake_, between wind and water, half of them indeed below the water-line. Captain Paul Jones, through his glass, makes out the black round shot-holes; they show as thick as cloves in the rind of a Christmas ham. “Why!” he exclaims, “this doesn’t match my book! I must put a stopper on such work.” Shutting up his glass, Captain Paul Jones leaps from the after flush-deck down among his sailors. Drunk with blood, grimed of powder, naked to the waist, the black glory of battle in their hearts, they merrily work their guns. It is as he beheld from the after-deck. The _Ranger_ rolls to port as the _Drake_, all dripping, is fetching up her starboard side. “Fire!” cries the master-gunner, and “Fire!” runs the word along the battery. The long nines respond with flame and bellow! Then they race crashingly inboard with the recoil, and are caught by the breeching tackle. With that the smoky work is all to do over again. The brawny sailor men--from Nantucket, from Martha’s Vineyard, from Sag Harbor, from New London and Barnstable and Salem and Boston and Portsmouth they are--shirtless and shoeless, barefoot and stripped to the belts, ply sponge and rammer. Again each black-throated gun is ready with a stomachful of solid shot. “Show ‘em your teeth, mates!” The guns rattle forward on their carriages. The quick port-tires stand ready, blowing their matches. There is a brief pause, as the master-gunner waits for that fatal downward roll to port which offers and opens the _Drake_‘s starboard side almost to the keel. “Ah! I see, Mr. Starbuck,” begins Captain Paul Jones sweetly, addressing the master-gunner. “Your effort is to hull the enemy.” “Fire!” cries the master-gunner, for just then the _Ranger_ is reeling down to port, while the _Drake_ is coming up to starboard, and he must not waste the opportunity.