ocket, and spread it over
his face and breast, lest the crew should be disheartened.

"I know who fired that shot," cried Dan, when he saw that he could help
no more. "He never shall live to boast of it, if I have to board the
French ship to fetch him."

He ran back quickly to the quarterdeck, and there found three or four
others eager to give their lives for Nelson's death. The mizzen-top of
the Redoutable, whence the fatal shot had come, was scarcely so much
as fifty feet from the starboard rail of the Victory. The men who were
stationed in that top, although they had no brass cohorn there, such
as those in the main and fore tops plied, had taken many English lives,
while the thick smoke surged around them.

For some time they had worked unheeded in the louder roar of cannon, and
when at last they were observed, it was hard to get a fair shot at them,
not only from the rolling of the entangled ships, and clouds of blinding
vapour, but because they retired out of sight to load, and only
came forward to catch their aim. However, by the exertions of our
marines--who should have been at them long ago--these sharp-shooters
from the coign of vantage were now reduced to three brave fellows. They
had only done their duty, and perhaps had no idea how completely they
had done it; but naturally enough our men looked at them as if they were
"too bad for hanging." Smoky as the air was, the three men saw that a
very strong feeling was aroused against them, and that none of their
own side was at hand to back them up. And the language of the
English--though they could not understand it--was clearly that of bitter
condemnation.

The least resolute of them became depressed by this, being doubtless a
Radical who had been taught that Vox populi is Vox Dei. He endeavoured,
therefore, to slide down the rigging, but was shot through the heart,
and dead before he had time to know it. At the very same moment the
most desperate villain of the three--as we should call him--or the most
heroic of these patriots (as the French historians describe him) popped
forward and shot a worthy Englishman, who was shaking his fist instead
of pointing his gun.

Then an old quartermaster, who was standing on the poop, with his legs
spread out as comfortably as if he had his Sunday dinner on the spit
before him, shouted--"That's him, boys--that glazed hat beggar! Have
at him all together, next time he comes forrard." As he spoke, he
fell dead, with his te