. I am very ill." It was from his enemy,--the
Portuguese.

Surcouf did not like the idea, but after thinking the matter over, he
went. But note this,--he had a pair of loaded pistols in his pocket.
Dead men--you know--tell no tales.

As he entered the sick man's cabin, a servant was there. The
Portuguese made a sign to him to retire.

"I wish to speak to you with a sincere heart," said he, turning his
face to young Surcouf. "Before I pass from this world I want to
relieve my conscience, and ask your forgiveness for all the evil which
I have wished you during our voyages together."

"I bear you no malice," said Surcouf. "Let by-gones be by-gones."

As he spoke a spasm seemed to contort the body of the dying man. One
arm stretched out towards a pillow nearby, and Robert had a sudden,
but excellent thought. Stepping forward, he seized the hand of his old
enemy, lifted the pillow, and, then started back with an exclamation
of astonishment.

"Ye Gods!" cried he. "You would murder me!"

There, before him, were two cocked and loaded pistols.

Leaping forward he grabbed the weapons, pointing one at the forehead
of the rascally sailor.

"You miserable beast!" cried he. "I can now shoot you like a dog, or
squash you like an insect; but I despise you too much. I will leave
you to die like a coward."

"And," says a historian, "this is what the wretched man
did,--blaspheming in despairing rage."

In October, 1794, Lieutenant Surcouf saw his first big battle, for,
the English being at war with the French, two British men-of-war
hovered off the island of Mauritius, blockading the port of St.
Thomas. They were the _Centurion_ of fifty-four guns, and the
_Diomede_, also of fifty-four cannon, but with fewer tars. The French
had four ships of war: the _Prudente_, forty guns; the _Cybele_,
forty-four guns; the _Jean Bart_, twenty guns; and the _Courier_,
fourteen guns. Surcouf was junior Lieutenant aboard the _Cybele_.

It was a beautiful, clear day, as the French vessels ploughed out to
battle; their sails aquiver with the soft breeze; their pennons
fluttering; guns flashing; and eager sailors crowding to the rails
with cutlasses newly sharpened and pistols in their sashes.

_Boom!_

The first gun spoke. The first shell spun across the bow of the
British bull-dog _Diomede_, and the battle was on.

Have you ever seen a school of pollock chasing a school of smaller
fry? Have you ever seen them jump and splash, and thud u