n of utter need. Now, or never, must the mighty struggle
be ended. We worried them off Portland; we must rend them in pieces
now; and in rushes ship after ship, to smash her broadsides through and
through the wooden castles, "sometimes not a pike's length asunder,"
and then out again to re-load, and give place meanwhile to another. The
smaller are fighting with all sails set; the few larger, who, once in,
are careless about coming out again, fight with top-sails loose, and
their main and foreyards close down on deck, to prevent being boarded.
The duke, Oquenda, and Recalde, having with much ado got clear of the
shallows, bear the brunt of the fight to seaward; but in vain. The day
goes against them more and more, as it runs on. Seymour and Winter have
battered the great San Philip into a wreck; her masts are gone by the
board; Pimentelli in the San Matthew comes up to take the mastiffs
off the fainting bull, and finds them fasten on him instead; but the
Evangelist, though smaller, is stouter than the Deacon, and of all the
shot poured into him, not twenty "lackt him thorough." His masts are
tottering; but sink or strike he will not.

"Go ahead, and pound his tough hide, Leigh," roars Drake off the poop
of his ship, while he hammers away at one of the great galliasses. "What
right has he to keep us all waiting?"

Amyas slips in as best he can between Drake and Winter; as he passes he
shouts to his ancient enemy,--

"We are with you, sir; all friends to-day!" and slipping round Winter's
bows, he pours his broadside into those of the San Matthew, and then
glides on to re-load; but not to return. For not a pistol shot to
leeward, worried by three or four small craft, lies an immense galleon;
and on her poop--can he believe his eyes for joy?--the maiden and the
wheel which he has sought so long!

"There he is!" shouts Amyas, springing to the starboard side of the
ship. The men, too, have already caught sight of that hated sign; a
cheer of fury bursts from every throat.

"Steady, men!" says Amyas, in a suppressed voice. "Not a shot! Re-load,
and be ready; I must speak with him first;" and silent as the grave,
amid the infernal din, the Vengeance glides up to the Spaniard's
quarter.

"Don Guzman Maria Magdalena Sotomayor de Soto!" shouts Amyas from the
mizzen rigging, loud and clear amid the roar.

He has not called in vain. Fearless and graceful as ever, the tall,
mail-clad figure of his foe leaps up upon the poop-rai