with six bullets, pikes fifteen feet long, and enormous clubs--all of
this with "drinks all round" and the promise of pillage. No wonder
they could fight!

With a wild, ear-splitting whoop the wild men of the French privateer
finally leaped over the rail--upon the deck of the Englishman--and
there was fierce struggling for possession of her. At the head of his
men, Rivington fought like a true Briton,--cutlass in hand, teeth
clinched, eyes to the front. He was magnificent.

But what could one man do against many?

Back, back, the French forced the valiant lion, while his crew fell
all about in tiers, and, at length, they drove him to the poop. He was
bleeding from many a wound. He was fast sinking.

"Don't give up the ship!" he cried, casting his eye aloft at the red
ensign of his country.

Then he fell upon his face, and the maddened followers of Surcouf
swept over the decking like followers of Attila, the terrible Hun.

"Spare the women!" shouted the French Captain above the din--and roar
of battle. "Pillage; but spare the women!"

It was well that he had spoken, for his cut-throats were wild with the
heat of battle. In twenty minutes the _Kent_ was helpless; her crew
were prisoners; and the saucy pennon of France fluttered where once
had waved the proud ensign of Great Britain.

Surcouf was happy. Landing the English prisoners in an Arab vessel, he
arrived at the Mauritius with his prize in November, and soon took his
doughty _Confiance_ to the low shores of France, catching a
Portuguese merchant en route, and anchoring at La Rochelle, on April
13th, 1801.

Rich, famous, respected; he now married the good Mlle. Marie Blaize,
and became the owner of privateers and a respected citizen of the
Fatherland. Fortune had favored this brave fellow.

As a prosperous ship-owner and ship-builder of his native
village--"the Sea-Hound of St. Malo"--closed his adventurous life in
the year 1827. And when he quietly passed away, the good housewives
used to mutter:

"Look you! Here was a man who fought the English as well as they
themselves could fight. He was a true son of William the Conqueror.
Look you! This was a King of the Ocean!"

And the gulls wheeled over the grave of the doughty sea-warrior,
shrieking,

"He-did-it! He-did-it! He-did-it!"

THE CRY FROM THE SHORE

Come down, ye greyhound mariners,
Unto the wasting shore!
The morning winds are up,--the Gods
Bid me to dream no more.