was thick, for around it at bay were gathered many valiant men of Spain, fighting for their own.  They who by the law of the strong were to inherit from them had yet to break that phalanx.  Sedley threw himself forward, beat down a veteran of the Indies, swept on towards the goal of that hated banner.  His enemies withstood him, closed around him; in a moment he was cut off from the English, was gazing into Death’s eyes.  With desperate courage he strove to thrust aside the spectre, but it came nearer,—­and nearer,—­and nearer.  The blood from a cut across his temple was blinding him.  He dashed it from him, and then—­that was not Death’s face, but his Captain’s....  Death slunk away.  Ferne, whose dagger had made that rescue, whose sword was rapidly achieving for the two of them a wizard’s circle, chided and laughed as he fought: 

“What, lad! wouldst have played Samson among the Philistines?  A man should better know his strength.—­There, senor! a St. George for your San Jago!—­Well done again, Henry Sedley! but I must show you a better passado.—­Have at thee, Don Inches!—­Ah, Captain Baldry, Giles Arden, good Humphrey, give you welcome!  Here’s room for Englishmen.—­Well, die, then, pertinacious senor!—­Now, now, Henry Sedley, there are lions yet in your path, but not so many.  Have at their golden banner an you prize the toy!  No, Arden, no—­let him take it single-handed.  Our first battle is far behind us....  Now who leads here, since I think that he who did command is dead?  Is it you, senor?”

The poop was a shambles, the San Jose from stem to stern in sorry case.  Underfoot lay the dead and wounded, her guns were silenced, her men-at-arms overmastered.  They had fought with desperate bravery, but the third attack of the English had been elemental in its force.  A rushing wave, a devastating flame, they had swept the ship, and defeat was the portion of their foes.  Waist and forecastle were won, but upon the poop a remnant yet struggled, though in weakness and despair.  It was to one of this band that the Captain of the Cygnet addressed his latest words.  Even as he spoke he parried the other’s thrust, and felt that it had been given but half-heartedly.  He had used the Spanish tongue, but when an answer came from the mailed figure before him it was couched in English.

“Not so, valiant sir,” it said, and there was in the voice some haste and eagerness.  “Say rather I am led.  Alas! when a man fights with his sword alone, his will being traitor to his hand!”

“Since it is with the sword alone you fight, Spaniard with an English tongue,” replied his antagonist, “I do advise you to go seek your sword, seeing that without it you are naught.”  As he spoke he sent the other’s weapon hurtling into the sea.

Its owner made a gesture of acquiescence.  “I surrender,” he said; then in an undertone:  “He yonder with the plume, now that De Castro lies dead, is your fittest quarry.  Drag him down and the herd is yours.”