Commodore Paul Jones goes aboard the beaten Serapis. “Cut free that sta’board anchor!” he cries. The piled dead and wounded are lifted aside, and that fatal anchor, which for two hours of blood has been as the backbone of battle, goes splashing into the ocean. The ships rock apart; as they separate, Commodore Paul Jones takes a sharp survey of the Richard. The survey brings little hope; his good ship that has fought so well for him lies in the water four smothering feet below its trim.

“There are eight feet of water in the hold,” replies Lieutenant Dale, whom he hails. “The pumps choke; there’s no chance to save the ship.”

Then arises a sudden rending and tearing aboard the Serapis; there is a great swish! and a snapping of cordage. It is the mainmast crashing to port, a tangle of ropes and spars.

“Beg pardon, sir,” says a voice at the elbow of Commodore Paul Jones. “I’d have had it down an hour ago, but there was neither wind nor swell to help me. I had to cut it in two shot by shot to drop it, sir.”

Commodore Paul Jones breaks into a smile. “Ah, yes; I remember, Mr. Lindthwait! I set you at that mainmast with the three long nines. I wish now that I’d given you another target. However, you did extremely well. It should teach you, too, my lad, that a nine is as good as an eighteen, if you’ll only go close enough. That’s it; there’s the whole secret of success in war. Be sure and go close enough, and you will conquer.”

Midshipman Lindthwait salutes respectfully, and lays away that golden rule of the battle art in his memory.

The removal of the Richard’s wounded is begun. The calm, windless sea assists; at last no one is left aboard the shot-pierced Richard but the dead.

Sixty lionhearts, who gave their lives for victory, are laid side by side on the deck. The petticoat flag flies proudly from the ensign gaff. Commodore Paul Jones, from the deck of the Serapis, watches the Richard to the last. The tears dim his sight, and he is driven more than once to dash them away; for a sailor loves his ship as though it were a woman.

The Richard settles by the head; the stern is lifted clear of the water. Then, as though seized by some impulse, the Richard, bows first, dives for the bottom of the sea. The last that is seen, as the stout old ship goes down, is the virgin petticoat flag of the pretty Portsmouth girls. Commodore Paul Jones, bare of head, tears blinding his eyes, waves a last farewell.

“Good-bye, my lads!” he cries. “And you, too, my Richard; good-bye!”

The Pallas comes up, breeze aft. The little ship throws its head into the wind, and Captain Cot-tineau hails Commodore Paul Jones.

“I have the honor, sir,” says Captain Cottineau, “to report the enemy’s surrender of his ship.”

Captain Cottineau points with his speaking-trumpet to the Countess of Scarboro a furlong astern, the stars and stripes above the union Jack.

Commodore Paul Jones congratulates Captain Cottineau, and tells him to make sail for Dunkirk with his prize. Captain Cottineau, observing the helpless Serapis, its deck a jungle of cordage and broken timbers, replies that if Commodore Paul Jones doesn’t mind he’d sooner stand by. Commodore Paul Jones doesn’t mind, and so Captain Cottineau, with the Pallas and the captured Scarboro stands by. The loyalty of Captain Cottineau flushes the bronzed cheek of Commodore Paul Jones. It is a change from the villain Landais! Ah, yes! Landais! The brow of Commodore Paul Jones turns black with anger; for a moment he forgot the scoundrel. He runs his glass along the horizon to seaward. There is no sign of the Alliance. Long ago the traitor Landais turned his recreant bows for France.

An off-shore gale springs up; adrift and helpless, the Serapis is carried seventy miles toward............