When at last the British frigate had come within easy distance, she hailed. “What vessel is that?” demanded Captain Burdon. “The Ranger, Paul Jones, commander. We are waiting for you, so strip for the fight.” As he spoke the American captain gave a signal and the stars and stripes shot up to the masthead; then the helm was suddenly thrown up and the Ranger darted across the bows of the British vessel and poured a raking broadside into her. The captain of the Drake tried to bring the frigate across the Ranger’s stern, but Paul Jones prevented this; the two ships were now yard arm to yard arm and poured a terrific fire into each other’s rigging and hulls. Ethan Carlyle, whose ability as a gunner had been discovered by Captain Jones long before, had charge of a six pounder in the bow. He and Longsword, stripped to the waists, and all begrimed with powder smoke, served this piece with deadly effect. In the heat of the battle the gallant young Lieutenant Wallingford rushed up to Ethan. “Captain Jones desires you to try for her forerigging,” panted he. “If we can cripple her badly aloft we’ll make her strike.” Longsword had just rammed a charge into the gun, and Ethan sighted it coolly. A rain of musket shots was being poured into them by the soldier volunteers upon the Drake; but the young gunner paid no heed to this. Applying the match the gun roared redly; the foretop-gallant yard of the British ship splintered and hung down the mast in a tangle of rigging. “Hurrah,” yelled Longsword. “A fine shot, faith!” “And placed in the right spot,” said Wallingford. Almost as the words left his mouth, this brave young officer uttered a smothered groan, clasped both hands to his breast and sank into the arms of the Irish dragoon. “Is he hit?” cried Ethan, anxiously, springing forward. “Is he badly wounded?” “He have his death, sir,” replied Longsword solemnly. “It’s a musket-ball, and from the spot it struck, it split the boy’s brave heart.” As he spoke the grim Irishman tenderly lowered the still, white form to the deck; then in silence, and with set, hard faces, he and Ethan Carlyle once more turned to the serving of the gun. At length the Drake was little more than a wreck; her rigging and yards were a wilderness of broken spars and ropes; her canvas was in shreds and two flags had been shot away. Half her guns were dismounted and out of action, and forty of her crew were killed or disabled when at last she struck. Ethan was with Captain Jones when he boarded the prize; when the prisoners were lined up for inspection they were bitterly disappointed to find that the Lascar was not among them. While Captain Jones was giving his attention to the repairing of the worst damages and the care of the wounded Ethan questioned the boatswain’s mate of the defeated ship.