Arapiles" had been lowered. In a few minutes
after it rose again, but this time surmounted by the Chilian flag.

Then the four vessels stood in toward the Hook.

The watchers on the signal station now waited in breathless suspense.

The "Arapiles," with a prize crew from the other vessels to work her
guns, was to be made to attack her former consort, the stranded "El
Cid;" and that vessel, aware of her danger, was now firing rapidly at
her approaching enemies.

It was not reserved, however, for the Chilians to complete their victory
by the capture of the great ironclad.

The giant was to be killed by a pigmy scarce larger than one of his own
huge weapons. A smaller steam-launch slowly crept out from the Staten
Island shore. But two men could be seen on board of her--one in the bow,
the other at the helm.

"They don't see us yet, Ned," said the man in the bow.

"No; they have all they can do to take care of the other fellows. Look
out! Are you hurt?"

A shell from the Chilians just then came over the Hook, and, bursting
under the water near the launch, deluged the boat with spray.

"Not a bit," said the other.

"Is your boom clear?"

"All clear."

Bang! A shot, this time from the Spaniard came skipping along the water
in the direction of the launch, and flew over the heads of the daring
pair.

"Hang them! They've seen us."

"Rig out your boom. We're in for it now!"

The man in the stern pushed shut the door of the boiler furnace, and
turned on full steam.

The little craft fairly leaped ahead.

The two men set their teeth. He of the stern lashed the tiller
amidships, and crept forward, aiding the other to push out the long boom
which projected from the bow.

Ten seconds passed. Then the torpedo on the end of the boom struck the
"El Cid" under the stern. There was a crash--a vast upheaval of water
and fragments.

The great ironclad rolled over on her side and lay half submerged.

Of the two men who had done this, one swam ashore bearing the other,
wounded to the death.

A mighty cheer arose from the Chilian fleet, repeated from the shore
with redoubled volume.

"El Cid" lay sullen and silent; two of her guns were pointing under
water, two up to the clouds.

The "Arapiles" fired the last shell at her own admiral--now a corpse,
torn to pieces by the torpedo.

Then some one scrambled along the deck of the wrecked monster and
lowered the Spanish flag.

"I think we'll keep that money," remark