Jackson appeared to be no less astonished at the recognition of Newton, whom he had supposed to have perished on the sand-bank.  Both mechanically called each other by name, and both sprang forward.  The blow of Newton’s sword was warded off by the miscreant; but at the same moment that of Monsieur de Fontanges was passed through his body to the hilt.  Newton had just time to witness the fall of Jackson, when a tomahawk descended on his head; his senses failed him, and he lay among the dead upon the deck.

There was a shriek, a piercing shriek, heard when Newton fell.  It passed the lips of one who had watched, with an anxiety too intense to be pourtrayed, the issue of the conflict;—­it was from Isabel, who had quitted the cabin at the crash occasioned by the collision of the two vessels, and had remained upon the poop “spectatress of the fight.”  There were no fire-arms used; no time for preparation had been allowed.  There had been no smoke to conceal—­all had been fairly presented to her aching sight.  Yes! there she had remained, her eye fixed upon Newton Forster, as, at the head of his men, he slowly gained the deck of the contested vessel.  Not one word did she utter; but, with her lips wide apart from intensity of feeling, she watched his progress through the strife, her eye fixed—­immovably fixed upon the spot where his form was to be seen; hope buoyant, as she saw his arm raised and his victims fall—­heart sinking, as the pirate sword aimed at a life so dear.  There she stood like a statue—­as white as beautiful—­as motionless as if, indeed, she had been chiselled from the Parian marble; and had it not been for her bosom heaving with the agony of tumultuous feeling, you might have imagined that all was as cold within.  Newton fell—­all her hopes were wrecked—­she uttered one wild shriek, and felt no more.

After the fall of Jackson, the pirates were disheartened, and their resistance became more feeble.  M. de Fontanges carved his way to the taffrail, and then turned round to kill again.  In a few minutes the most feeble-hearted escaped below, leaving the few remaining brave to be hacked to pieces, and the deck of the pirate vessel was in possession of the British crew.  Not waiting to recover his breath, M. de Fontanges rushed below to seek his wife.  The cabin door was locked, but yielded to his efforts; and he found her in the arms of her attendants in a state of insensibility.  A scream of horror at the sight of his bloody sword, and another of joy at the recognition of their master, was followed up with the assurance that Madame had only fainted.  M. de Fontanges took his wife in his arms, and carried her on deck, where, with the assistance of the seamen, he removed her on board of the Windsor Castle, and in a short time had the pleasure to witness her recovery.  Their first endearments over, there was an awkward question to put to a wife.  After responding to her caresses, M. de Fontanges inquired, with an air of anxiety very remarkable in a Frenchman,