“Prime!” shouted the officer on the quarter-deck.  Primers were placed in the vents of the already loaded guns, and the gun-captains stepped back, tautening the lock-strings, and bending down to glance along the sights.

“Point!  Tell the division officers to train on the craft that’s coming, and wait orders.”  This last command to a midshipman aid.

The silence throughout the great ship was profound.  The gun-captains eyed the approaching vessels over the sights of their guns.  Only the quick throb of the engines and the sough of the waves were audible.

The two vessels were now within some four miles of each other.  There was no question but that the stranger was a man-of-war—­and an ironclad, at that—­provided with a formidable ram.

“I thought so,” suddenly ejaculated the admiral:  “Now show him who we are.”

The English flag had been replaced by the red-yellow-and-red bars of Spain.  Down came the red cross from the peak of the “Franklin;” and then, not only there, but from every mast-head, floated the stars and stripes.

A puff of smoke from the Spaniard—­a whirr, a shriek, and a solid shot struck the water, having passed entirely over the American frigate.

“He fires at long range!” remarked the admiral, calmly.

“It would be useless for us to reply,” answered the captain.

“Clearly so.”

“Shall we stop and wait for him, sir?”

“Wait for him?  No!  Go for him!  Four bells, sir!  Ring four bells and go ahead fast!”

The clang of the engine-bell resounded through the ship; the thump of the machinery grew more rapid; the whole vessel thrilled and shook, as if eager for the attack.

The distance between the two ships was reduced to about two miles.

Again the Spaniard fired.  The shot struck the “Franklin” broad on her port-bow, knocked over a gun, killed six men, and passed through the other side of the ship.

Still the “Franklin” pressed on.

Crash! a huge shell from an Armstrong eighteen-ton gun burst between the fore and mainmasts; the bow pivot-gun was dismounted; ten men of her crew down; the maintopmast stays cut, and the maintopmast tottering.  Crash!  Another shell, and the jib-boom hangs dragging under the bows; the fore topgallantmast is carried away.  Men hacked at the rigging to clear away the wreck which now impeded the ship’s advance.

“Now let him have it,” said the admiral, quietly.

The captain speaks to the executive officer, who shouts through his trumpet:  “Port guns!  Ready!  Fire!!”

The concussion of the explosion made the ship stagger for a moment.

When the smoke cleared away, the Spaniard’s mizzenmast was seen dragging overboard; but otherwise no damage had been inflicted.

“His armor is too thick for us,” gravely remarked the admiral; “get boom torpedoes over the bows!”

“All ready, now, sir,” reported the captain.