The news that her commander brought was this--Admiral Lord Beresford had succeeded in eluding the notice of the French Channel Fleet, and was on his way up the south-west with the intention of getting behind Admiral Durenne's fleet, and crushing it between his own force to seaward and the batteries and Reserve Fleet on the landward side. The Commander of the destroyer was, of course, quite ignorant of the disaster which had befallen the battleships of the Reserve Fleet and Portsmouth, and when the captain of the cruiser told him the tidings, though he received the news with the almost fatalistic _sang froid_ of the British naval officer, turned a shade or two paler under the bronze of his skin. "That is terrible news, sir," he said, "and it will probably alter the Admiral's plans considerably. I must be off as soon as possible, and let him know: meanwhile, of course, you will use your own judgment." "Yes," replied the Commodore, "but I think you had better take one of our destroyers, say the _Greyhound_, back with you. She's got her bunkers full, and she can manage thirty-two knots in a sea like this." At this moment the sentry knocked at the door of the Commodore's room. "Come in," said Commodore Hoskins. The door opened, a sentry came in and saluted, and said: "The _Ithuriel's_ alongside, sir, and Captain Erskine will be glad to speak to you." "Ah!" exclaimed the Commodore, "the very thing. I wonder what that young devil has been up to. Send him in at once, sentry." The sentry retired, and presently Erskine entered the room, saluted, and said: "I've come to report, sir, I have sunk everything that tried to get in through Spithead. First division of three destroyers, the old _Leger_, the _Dupleix_ cruiser, six destroyers of the second division, and three cruisers, the _Alger_, _Suchet_ and _Davout_. They're all at the bottom." The Commodore stared for a moment or two at the man who so quietly described the terrific destruction that he had wrought with a single ship, and then he said: "Well, Erskine, we expected a good deal from that infernal craft of yours, but this is rather more than we could have hoped for. You've done splendidly. Now, what's your best speed?" "Forty-five knots, sir." "Good Lord!" exclaimed the Commander of the _Greyhound_. "You don't say so." "Oh, yes," said Erskine with a smile. "You ought to have seen us walk over those destroyers. I hit them at full speed, and they crumpled up like paper boats." By this time the Commodore had sat down, and was writing his report as fast as he could get his pencil over the paper. It was a short, terse, but quite comprehensive account of the happenings of the last three hours, and a clear statement of the strength and position of the torpedo and cruiser squadron under his command. When he had finished, he put the paper into an envelope, and said to the Commander of the _Greyhound_: