he hands cold and the
pulse gone; but upon laying his hand upon his forehead, Nelson opened
his eyes, looked up, and then closed them forever. Five minutes later
he was dead. The passing was so quiet that Dr. Scott, still rubbing
his breast, did not perceive it, until the surgeon announced that all
was over. It was half-past four o'clock, just three hours after the
fatal wound was received. Not till an hour later did the last of the
eighteen prizes strike, and firing cease altogether; but the
substantial results were known to Nelson before consciousness left
him. To quote the rugged words of the "Victory's" log, "Partial firing
continued until 4.30, when a victory having been reported to the Right
Honourable Lord Viscount Nelson, K.B., he died of his wound."

Of the five ships of the allied van which passed to windward of the
"Victory," one was cut off and captured by the "Minotaur" and
"Spartiate." The other four continued on the wind to the southwest,
and escaped to sea. By the surrender of Villeneuve the chief command
of the combined fleets remained with the Spanish admiral Gravina. The
latter, at quarter before five, fifteen minutes after Nelson breathed
his last, retreated upon Cadiz, making signal for the vessels which
had not struck to rally round his flag. Ten other ships, five French
and five Spanish,--in all eleven sail-of-the-line,--made good their
escape into the port.

"Before sunset," wrote an eye-witness on board the "Belleisle," "all
firing had ceased. The view of the fleet at this period was highly
interesting, and would have formed a beautiful subject for a painter.
Just under the setting rays were five or six dismantled prizes; on one
hand lay the Victory with part of our fleet and prizes, and on the
left hand the Royal Sovereign and a similar cluster of ships. To the
northward, the remnant of the combined fleets was making for Cadiz.
The Achille, with the tricoloured ensign still displayed, had burnt to
the water's edge about a mile from us, and our tenders and boats were
using every effort to save the brave fellows who had so gloriously
defended her; but only two hundred and fifty were rescued, and she
blew up with a tremendous explosion."

There, surrounded by the companions of his triumph, and by the
trophies of his prowess, we leave our hero with his glory. Sharer of
our mortal weakness, he has bequeathed to us a type of single-minded
self-devotion that can never perish. As his funeral anthem