There was another keen and anxious examination of the upper spars of the
distant ship, but the direction of the wind prevented any signs of her
communicating with the corvette from being visible. La Fontange appeared
equally uncertain of the character of the stranger, and for a moment there
was some evidence of an intention to change her course. But the moment for
indecision had past. The ships were already sweeping up abreast of each
other, under the constant pressure of the breeze.

"Be ready, men!" said Ludlow, in a low but firm voice, retaining his
elevated post on the poop, while he motioned to his companion to return to
the main-deck. "Fire at his flash!"

Intense expectation succeeded. The two graceful fabrics sailed steadily
on, and came within hail. So profound was the stillness in the Coquette,
that the rushing sound of the water she heaped under her bows was
distinctly audible to all on board, and might be likened to the deep
breathing of some vast animal, that was collecting its physical energies
for some unusual exertion. On the other hand, tongues were loud and
clamorous among the cordage of la Fontange. Just as the ships were fairly
abeam, the voice of young Dumont was heard, shouting through a trumpet,
for his men to fire. Ludlow smiled, in a seaman's scorn. Raising his own
trumpet, with a quiet gesture to his attentive and ready crew, the whole
discharge of their artillery broke out of the dark side of the ship, as if
it had been by the volition of the fabric. The answering broadside was
received almost as soon as their own had been given, and the two vessels
passed swiftly without the line of shot.

The wind had sent back their own smoke upon the English, and for a time it
floated on their decks, wreathed itself in the eddies of the sails, and
passed away to leeward, with the breeze that succeeded to the
counter-current of the explosions. The whistling of shot, and the crash of
wood, had been heard amid the din of the combat. Giving a glance at his
enemy, who still stood on, Ludlow leaned from the poop, and, with all a
sailor's anxiety, he endeavored to scan the gear aloft.

"What is gone, Sir?" he asked of Trysail, whose earnest face just then
became visible through the drifting smoke. "What sail is so heavily
flapping?"

"Little harm done, Sir--little harm--bear a hand with the tackle on that
fore-yard-arm, you lubbers! you move like snails in a minuet! The fellow
has shot away the lee fore-top