ing fourteen. The
hostile squadron was formidable, and Du Guay-Trouin hesitated to
attack.

In command of the Dutch vessels was Baron van Wassenaer, one of a
family of famous sea-fighters from Holland, and he manoeuvred his
ships with consummate skill; always interposing his own vessel between
the French privateer and his fleet of merchantmen.

"Ah-ha," cried gallant Renee, at this moment. "Here come some of my
own boys."

And--sure enough--from the direction of France, and boiling along
under full canvas, rolled two privateersmen of St. Malo. Cheer after
cheer went up from the deck of the _St. Jacques des Victoires_, as
they pounded through the spray, for this made the contending parties
about equal, although the Dutch boats were larger, heavier, and they
had more guns aboard.

The Dutchmen now formed in line. In front was the flagship--the
_Delft_--with her fifty guns glowering ominously from the port-holes;
second was the thirty-gun frigate; and third, the other war-hound of
fifty guns: the _Hondslaardjiik_. Through a trumpet Du Guay-Trouin
shrilled his orders.

"The _Sans-Pareil_ will attack the _Hondslaardjiik_," cried he. "The
two privateers will hammer the frigate, while I and the _St. Jacques
des Victoires_ will attend to the _Delft_. The _Lenore_ will sail in
among the convoy. Fight, and fight to win!"

A fine breeze rippled the waves. The two squadrons were soon at each
others' throats, and there upon the sobbing ocean a sea-fight took
place which was one of the most stubborn of the ages.

As the Frenchmen closed in upon the Dutch, the _Hondslaardjiik_
suddenly left the line and crashed a broadside into the _St. Jacques
des Victoires_. It staggered her, but she kept on, and--heading
straight for her lumbering antagonist--ran her down. A splitting of
timber, a crunch of boards, a growl of musketry, and, with a wild
cheer, the Frenchmen leaped upon the deck of the Dutch warship; Du
Guay-Trouin in the lead, a cutlass in his right hand, a spitting
pistol in the left.

_Crash! Crackle! Crash!_ An irregular fire of muskets and pistols
sputtered at the on-coming boarders. But they were not to be stopped.
With fierce, vindictive cheers the privateers of St. Malo hewed a
passage of blood across the decking, driving the Dutchmen below,
felling them upon the deck in windrows, and seizing the commander
himself by the coat collar, after his cutlass had been knocked from
his stalwart hand. The Dutchman was soon