effect their fire was having.  Nor, indeed, could they tell how far they were suffering themselves, for, standing at a gun, one could but hazily see that upon the right and the left.  But above the roar of the cannon came the sharper sound of the piping shot, the crashing of riven planks, and the occasional heavy thud as spar or block came hurtling on to the deck.  The lieutenants paced up and down the line of guns, while Captain Johnson fanned the smoke away with his cocked-hat and peered eagerly out.

“This is rare, Bobby!” said he, as the lieutenant joined him.  Then, suddenly restraining himself, “What have we lost, Mr. Wharton?”

“Our maintopsail yard and our gaff, sir.”

“Where’s the flag?”

“Gone overboard, sir.”

“They’ll think we’ve struck!  Lash a boat’s ensign on the starboard arm of the mizzen cross-jack-yard.”

“Yes, sir.”

A round-shot dashed the binnacle to pieces between them.  A second knocked two marines into a bloody palpitating mash.  For a moment the smoke rose, and the English captain saw that his adversary’s heavier metal was producing a horrible effect.  The Leda was a shattered wreck.  Her deck was strewed with corpses.  Several of her portholes were knocked into one, and one of her eighteen-pounder guns had been thrown right back on to her breech, and pointed straight up to the sky.  The thin line of marines still loaded and fired, but half the guns were silent, and their crews were piled thickly round them.

“Stand by to repel boarders!” yelled the captain.

“Cutlasses, lads, cutlasses!” roared Wharton.

“Hold your volley till they touch!” cried the captain of marines.

The huge loom of the Frenchman was seen bursting through the smoke.  Thick clusters of boarders hung upon her sides and shrouds.  A final broad-side leapt from her ports, and the main-mast of the Leda, snapping short off a few feet above the deck, spun into the air and crashed down upon the port guns, killing ten men and putting the whole battery out of action.  An instant later the two ships scraped together, and the starboard bower anchor of the Gloire caught the mizzen-chains of the Leda upon the port side.  With a yell the black swarm of boarders steadied themselves for a spring.

But their feet were never to reach that blood-stained deck.  From some where there came a well-aimed whiff of grape, and another, and another.  The English marines and seamen, waiting with cutlass and musket behind the silent guns, saw with amazement the dark masses thinning and shredding away.  At the same time the port broadside of the Frenchman burst into a roar.

“Clear away the wreck!” roared the captain.  “What the devil are they firing at?”

“Get the guns clear!” panted the lieutenant.  “We’ll do them yet, boys!”

The wreckage was torn and hacked and splintered until first one gun and then another roared into action again.  The Frenchman’s anchor had been cut away, and the Leda had worked herself free from that fatal hug.  But now, suddenly, there was a scurry up the shrouds of the Gloire, and a hundred Englishmen were shouting themselves hoarse:  “They’re running!  They’re running!  They’re running!”