egan again more urgently, "tell me, is it all over,
can it be true?"

Longstreet nodded, incapable of speech.

"Our poor, poor country," whispered Winstanley.

After a long pause Longstreet suddenly broke the silence by remarking:
"The _Nebraska_ went down at about six o'clock."

"And the _Georgia_ a little earlier," said Winstanley; "but where are
we? How did I get here?"

"The torpedo boat _Farragut_ fished us up after the battle. We are on
board the hospital ship _Ontario_ with about five hundred other
survivors."

"And what has become of the rest of our squadron?" asked Winstanley
apprehensively. Longstreet only shrugged his shoulders.

Then they both dozed again and listened to the splashing and gurgling of
the water against the ship's side and to the dull, regular thud of the
engine which by degrees began to form words in Winstanley's fever-heated
imagination--meaningless words which seemed to pierce his brain with
painful sharpness: "Oh, won't you come across," rose and fell the oily
melody, keeping time with the action of the piston-rods of the engine,
"Oh, won't you come across," repeated the walls, and "Oh, won't you come
across," clattered the water-bottle over in the wooden rack. Again and
again Winstanley said the words to himself in an everlasting, dull
repetition.

Longstreet looked at him compassionately, and murmured: "Another attack
of fever." Then he got up, and bending over his comrade, looked out of
the porthole.

Water everywhere; nothing but sparkling, glistening water, broad, blue,
rolling waves to be seen as far as the eye could reach. Not a sign of a
ship anywhere.

"Oh, won't you come across," repeated Longstreet, listlessly joining in
the rhythm of the engines. Then he stretched himself and sank back on
his chair in a somnolent state, thinking over the experiences of the
night.

So this was all that was left of the Pacific Fleet--a hospital ship with
a few hundred wounded officers and men, all that remained of Admiral
Crane's fleet, which had been attacked with torpedo boats by Admiral
Kamimura at three o'clock on the night of May eighth, after Togo had
destroyed Perry's squadron.

It had been a horrible surprise. The enemy must have intercepted the
signals between the squadron and the scouts, but as the Japanese had not
employed their wireless telegraph at all, none of the American
reconnoitering cruisers had had its suspicions aroused. Then the
wireless apparatus had sudden